Stunning South Georgia (Retrospective from November, 2015)

When I signed up for our cruise on the MV Ushuaia, I confess that I really only knew two things about South Georgia.  I knew that the Falklands War in 1982 started when Argentina invaded South Georgia, and that Ernest Shackleton and his men had sailed a life boat across the open South Atlantic to safety on South Georgia in 1917.  Reading up on the island while on board, and listening to the lectures from Monika and our biologists, I realized that South Georgia has other claims to fame and infamy.  It was the centre of Southern Ocean whaling until 1965, playing a huge part in the devastation of the populations of southern right whales and blue whales.  It is also, now that whaling is a thing of the past, perhaps the most important and largest seabird nesting site in the world, featuring prominently in BBC nature documentaries such as Frozen Planet and Life of Birds. 

King penguins at Right Whale Bay

As we steamed across the huge expanses of the southern ocean which separate South Georgia from the Falklands for three entire days, I settled into a somewhat lethargic routine involving lots of time in my bunk, escaping the low-level nausea of mild seasickness by sleeping, reading and listening to podcasts.  It was only on the third day that I finally felt more myself and went out on deck in unseasonably fine weather and calm seas to watch seabirds and take picture of the approaching bulk of Shag Rock, the first outlier of South Georgia.  Finally, on the morning of Monday, November 2^nd, we woke up to find ourselves at anchor off the beach of Right Whale Bay.  Our original plan had been to land a bit further up the coast at a location that sometimes has macaroni penguins in residence, but the sea had been too rough and the wind was in the wrong direction, so we had proceeded directly to our current location.  The weather was fairly awful, with snow squalls turning gradually into a full blizzard.  We lined up for the Zodiacs and were ferried ashore in groups of 9.  The beach was full of elephant seals lolling about like overstuffed sausages, with the occasional hyperaggressive southern fur seal (actually a kind of sea lion) to keep us on our toes.  Kata, one of our biologists, carried a boat paddle and used it to warn off any fur seals that looked as though they were contemplating a charge at us.  The fur seal males come ashore before the females and try to stake out a territory into which they can entice a harem of females once the females land in a few weeks’ time. 

I am too sexy for this beach

We stepped ashore and almost immediately were confronted by the sight of skuas and giant petrels pecking away at the bloodied corpse of a stillborn elephant seal pup.  Our attention, however, was diverted by our first king penguins wandering by along the beach.  They look a lot like a smaller version of the emperor penguin, with dramatic orange colouring on their beak and chest.  They waddled by singly or in small groups, often in single file, marching along solemnly past their huge mammalian neighbours.  I couldn’t stop taking pictures of the penguins; they make the most perfect photographic subjects.  Eventually we wandered a bit further along the beach toward the distant rookery where juvenile king penguins in their brown juvenile plumage, looking as though they were wearing their grandmother’s fur coat, were gathered in huge throngs for safety while their parents were out fishing for their lunch.  We couldn’t get very close to the rookeries, but from a distance the sheer numbers of birds, many thousands of juveniles and adults, was awe-inspiring.  A fin whale skeleton lay on the beach, its bleached bones a mute testament to long-ago whaling activities.  We filed back onto the Zodiacs a couple of hours later, feet frozen in our rubber boots and heads spinning with the overstimulation of so many sights, sounds and smells.

Sort of a king penguin Abbey Road cover

After a hearty lunch of chicken, pea soup and a delectable dessert of dulce de leche-based cake, it was time to sort through hundreds of photos, selecting the best shots, before heading off for our afternoon trip to Prion Island, a tiny offshore island where wandering albatrosses, the endemic South Georgia pipit, southern giant petrels, light-mantled sooty albatrosses, fur seals, elephant seals, skuas and gentoo penguins all compete for space.  It’s one of the few places on earth where tourists can easily see wandering albatrosses nesting, and landing parties are limited in size to fifty, so we split into two groups of 44.  There are only two boardwalked paths to follow, and we did a pretty good job of completely filling the boardwalks wherever a juvenile wandering albatross, almost a year old, sat on the ground, looking enormous and very Ugly Duckling-esque with their fluffy immature plumage.  Their parents have been tracked flying as far as the coast of Brazil in search of fish to feed their offspring, a week-long round trip.  Prion Island is one of the few islets off South Georgia never to have been infested with rats from whaling ships, so it is a safe place for ground-nesting birds such as the wandering albatross to nest.  As well, a number of South Georgia pipits, fairly unremarkable-looking birds, made an appearance, flittering around from bush to bush.  There were dozens of giant petrel juveniles interspersed among the albatrosses, some of them practicing take-offs and landings in the biting wind.  Skuas, looking predatory and very velociraptor-like, sat in pairs on the snow-covered grass. 

Juvenile wandering albatross on Prion Island

Down on the beach fur seals competed aggressively for space and Kata had to get very fierce and scary indeed with one particularly truculent male.  Some of the elephant seals had day-old newborn pups, and skuas were pecking away at them to remove the last bits of placenta.  On the beach gentoo penguins, my favourite species, waddled past the fur seals on their way to and from the water, sweeping their stubby flightless wings far behind their torsos for balance as they walked.  On our way back to the ship, I managed nearly to fall into the ocean getting out of the Zodiac in a heavy swell, ending up on my backside back in the Zodiac.  I had neglected the cardinal rule of quickly getting both feet up onto the side of the Zodiac before putting a foot onto the ship.  On the bright side, though, putting the insoles from my hiking boots into the rubber boots kept my feet much warmer than they had been during the morning.  That night, after a hearty meal of lasagne, we relived the excitement of the day’s landing in the lounge before turning in early to enjoy a night of deep, refreshing sleep in a calm anchorage.  I felt as though the main course of our Antarctic expedition had begun.

Juvenile king penguin rookery

Our second day on South Georgia, November 3^rd, began with a landing at Salisbury Plain, the so-called Serengeti of the South.  As we lined up for our Zodiacs to go ashore, I realized that there were three tourists dressed in penguin suits:  Ricky and Renee, an American-Malaysian couple on their honeymoon, and Jenny, a Canadian oilsands engineer.  We found ourselves in king penguin heaven, a huge nesting colony filling most of the land area of the beach.  There were of course elephant seals in huge harems, as well as preening fur seals, and Antarctic terns wheeled in great numbers in the air.  The endemic South Georgia pintail duck was well represented on the various meltwater streams that cut the beach at regular intervals, necessitating muddy river crossings or long detours.  But overwhelming our senses were the king penguins by the tens of thousands, many walking in single file to or from fishing expeditions in the ocean.  Thousands were moulting, standing apart from the crowd as they flapped their wings in irritation at what must have been an itchy experience.  

Perfect fur coats

Tens of thousands of juveniles, almost a year old, stood in huge aggregations, some of them coming right up to us in curiousity.  They cawed furiously for their parents, and Terri and I were amazed that they could find each other in the cacophony of penguin calls.  Here and there a penguin skeleton littered the beach, victims of stillbirth or skua attack or starvation.  It really was overwhelming, and after a while I stopped taking photos and just squatted down and watched the penguins come up to us within touching distance and stare at us.  I had the same feeling as I had had twenty years before with mountain gorillas in Zaire, that I was intruding into their living room with my camera.  Eventually we pulled ourselves away to return to the ship, sated with the sensory overload of too many penguins in one place.

Ruins of Stromness whaling station

After lunch and picture downloading and sorting, it was time for a different sort of landing in the afternoon.  We sailed down the coast to Stromness, one of the whaling stations that once dotted the shoreline of South Georgia.  Monika had given us a lecture on the history of whaling in the South Atlantic, and I was amazed (and somewhat horrified) at how widespread the use of whale products was in foods, industrial processes and even tennis racquet gut until the 1960s.  Stromness had been a Norwegian station until the abandonment of South Atlantic whaling in 1964, and now lies abandoned and in ruins, with warning signs keeping us 200 metres away from the shattered buildings.  There is both a physical danger, from winds sending scrap metal flying through the air, and a biological hazard from the asbestos used to insulate the buildings.  We landed on the beach in another driving snowstorm and set off inland, glad to stretch our legs and walk an appreciable distance for the first time since Port Stanley.  A glacial valley led inland from the ruins, between glaciated peaks, and along the path small, hardy gentoo penguins strolled along.  

Gentoo on a mission, Stromness

Gentoos, despite their comical appearance and small size, are the hardiest mountaineers of the penguin world, and often establish colonies inland in order to avoid competition for space with king penguins, elephant seals and fur seals.  We followed one individual for a long way; he was completely unfazed by our presence, and despite his tiny legs and waddling gait, he set a pace that was barely slower than our own.  Eventually we gave up the pursuit, as the gentoo colony appeared much further from shore than we felt like walking.  On the way back we passed skua couples setting up nesting sites, a few more gentoos and (of course) elephant seals, a single outsized male keeping an eagle eye over the much smaller females of his harem in case a rival male should suddenly appear.  Pintails were everywhere, swimming in the meltwater ponds.  A huge steel anchor lay on the beach, a still-life memento to the impermanence of human endeavour.

Walking up into the hills behind Stromness

This whaling station has historic connotations to do with Shackleton, as it was here, in 1917, that Shackleton and his companions completed their 36-hour dash over the island in search of help from the whalers.  Looking up into the snowy mountains, I was once again impressed by their speed, determination and mental toughness, crossing unknown mountains with no equipment in a do-or-die mission.  That night at dinner, we spotted our first icebergs floating past on the currents from the Antarctic Peninsula.

Terri, Alejandro the biologist and the MV Ushuaia

Our third full day on South Georgia began after a restless night of steaming around, as prevailing heavy winds prevented the captain from finding a calm anchorage anywhere along the coast.  We departed early (8 am) for a landing at Fortuna Bay.  It was in some ways my favourite landing site, enclosed by some of the most rugged scenery seen so far.  There were, of course, National Geographic quantities of fur seals, elephant seals and king penguins all over the beach.  The fresh-fallen snow blanketing everything (it was, of course, another driving blizzard) lent an air of drama and photographic contrast to everything.  There were skuas nesting everywhere, giant petrels scavenging dead elephant seal pups, gentoos climbing high above the beach up steep couloirs and then tobogganing down, king penguins sauntering around in large groups like bus tourists on a Florida beach.  

Elephant seal love

As we returned to the boat, Terri and I saw a male elephant seal holding down one of his (relatively) tiny mates with a flipper.  Eventually he decided to mate with her, and we watched, captivated, like voyeur zoologists, as he had his way with her.  As soon as it was over, she scooted free, moving with surprising speed for such a big animal, probably relieved to have escaped.  Again I felt as though David Attenborough should have been narrating the morning’s proceedings.

As our Zodiac got close to the ship, an unmistakeable aroma filled the air.  “Barbecue!  It’s a parillada!”  And sure enough as we came around the stern, we could see the kitchen staff gathered around a huge grill lashed to the portside railings of the ship.  We started with sausages as an appetizer in the lounge, and then moved to the main course, huge slabs of grilled beef, at the lunch table.  I ate until I thought I might possibly explode; I love Argentinian beef!  By the time we had finished our delicious dessert, we had steamed into Grytviken harbour.  Grytviken had once played host to three separate whaling stations (two Norwegian and one Scottish), and is now the capital of South Georgia, inhabited by the couple who administer the entire archipelago and a handful of British scientists.  After two and half days of dreadful weather, suddenly the skies cleared and the sun glinted on the thick blanket of fresh snow that covered everything.  While our passports were being stamped (with a neat entry stamp featuring penguins), we listened to the wife of the First Family talk about the huge effort being made to exterminate every single last rat on the entire archipelago.  It’s too early to tell yet, but the first indications are that there are no rats left alive anywhere.  If that is true, it’s great news for nesting seabirds.  There are currently 55 million birds nesting on South Georgia and its outlying islands; in the absence of rats (which prey on the eggs and chicks of ground-nesting birds like pipits, pintails and wandering albatrosses), that number could grow fairly rapidly to a mind-boggling 180 million.  Several of our fellow passengers were impressed enough with the project to donate to the charitable trust doing the restoration work.

Terri and the Boss, Grytviken

We were eventually released to go ashore, and we spread out along the beach and through the remains of the whaling station (which, unlike Stromness, has been cleaned up enough not to be hazardous to visitors).  There is an impressive museum, staffed by a succession of volunteer curators, which has an amazing collection of objects, animals and information about the history of whaling, the Falklands War (which started on South Georgia) and Shackleton (a replica of the lifeboat he sailed from Elephant Island to South Georgia lies in one building of the museum).  The current curator, a young Englishman, gave a couple of historic walking tours, but Terri and I tore ourselves away to visit the whaler’s church (where I got to play the organ and toll the bell), write postcards (South Georgia makes good money selling postcards and its own stamps) and take pictures of the elephant seals that now dominate a landscape that was once redolent of death and horror.  We walked out to Sir Ernest Shackleton’s grave with Oz, the 86-year-old Aussie Antarctic addict and Shackleton fan, and tried to locate the grave of Frank Wild, Shackleton’s second-in-command, who was re-buried here five years ago, under the thick snow.  

Finally located under the snow:  The Boss's right hand man

The visit ended with everyone at Shackleton’s grave, drinking a toast to “The Boss” and listening to a very brief speech by Oz.  We were completely happy as we Zodiacked back to the MV Ushuaia, watching the sun play on the fresh snow atop the high peaks lining the fjord.

Peak above Grytviken

November the 5^th, our last day on South Georgia, was a great send-off for us.  We finally had a great night of restful sleep in a very calm anchorage, and everyone woke up refreshed.  We got to St. Andrew’s Bay, perhaps the largest king penguin nesting colony in the world, only to find that high winds were driving waves onto an exposed, steep, dissipative beach.  After a brief confab, Monika and Agustin decided that it was too rough to land, but instead we would do Zodiac tours of the coast.  At first we were disappointed, but it quickly became clear that it was a brilliant solution.  

Leopard seal 

We had a completely different view of the animals and birds than we did from the shore, and we had a memorable encounter with a leopard seal who followed our Zodiac, showing us his huge top predator teeth.  An elephant seal swirled around in his own pseudo-Jacuzzi pool, while two other elephant seal males fought a blood-soaked duel on the beach.  

Five tons of elephant seal facing off against another five tons 

We watched giant petrels fishing offshore, and trying to take off with a comic-book series of running steps across the water.  We were surrounded by groups of king penguins fishing, wading ashore or diving into the surf.  We were in our Zodiac with Ivan and Guille, two of the Argentinian photo tour group (although Ivan is a Guatemalan), and it was mesmerizing to watch them trying to take good photos from the bottom of our violently bobbing boat.  Looking at the final results, though, I was impressed at the quality of the photos; of course, if, like Guille, you take 4000 photos in 90 minutes, you should end up with a few good shots.

Giant petrel takeoff run

In the afternoon, after lunch, we started the long sail southwest towards the Antarctic Peninsula.  Yesterday’s sunny weather was a distant memory as we detoured up the Drygalski Fjord, sailing up between towering mountains and hanging glaciers as snow accumulated on the deck and passengers had snowball fights.  We felt very small and insignificant as we got to the head of the fjord and stared up, way up, at the calving face of the glacier.  We slowly turned around and then steamed out to sea, past a series of huge icebergs, headed for Antarctica proper after four unforgettable days of wildlife encounters on the magical island of South Georgia.  It was hard to believe that we had been part of such an orgy of birdlife and mammals.  It was also hard to believe that Antarctica itself could compete with this, making us glad that we had signed up for the full three-week three destination experience.

Iceberg floating past the southeast corner of South Georgia 

Click here for more photos from this part of our trip!

Falkland Island Fanfare--Antarctic Cruise Part 1 (October 2015 Retrospective)

Antarctica is one of those place names, like Timbuktu or Jerusalem or Lhasa, that resonate in your mind long before you ever set foot there.  There are so many stories and images that percolate through our culture:  Scott’s doomed expedition, Amundsen’s successful dash to the Pole, Shackleton’s epic survival tale, emperor penguins and their unimaginably frigid months-long vigil in the dark with their eggs.  I had wanted to visit Antarctica for many years, but had always thought that it was far beyond my financial means; it was only when Terri and I began to plan our post-Switzerland travels that we decided that since we had both long harboured dreams of visiting Antarctica, it was time to break open the piggy bank and pay for a once-in-a-lifetime trip to the coldest, driest, highest and most unpopulated continent.

MV Ushuaia, our home for 20 days

We began looking in earnest almost two years ago, thinking of a trip over Christmas, but quickly decided that it would make more sense to make it part of a longer trip when we weren’t working.  I subscribed to newsletters from various tour operators, watching prices in the hope that we could get a last-minute special.  As we did our research, though, it seemed to us that it made more sense to pay a bit extra and get a much longer trip, including the Falkland Islands and South Georgia as well as the Antarctic Peninsula.  We watched the website of Ushuaia Turismo (which details all available departures from Ushuaia) and finally settled on a 20-day trip to all three destinations on the MV Ushuaia, operated by Antarpply Expeditions, leaving on October 26^th.  Unfortunately, we couldn’t commit to it until we knew when Terri’s Swiss citizenship would be granted, so we waited anxiously throughout the northern summer as we rode bicycles down the Danube, as I sailed and rode through Scandinavia, as Terri worked her last term in Leysin, as we went trekking in the Pyrenees.  Finally the date was confirmed and we knew that Terri would be free to go to Antarctica at the end of October.  We wrote to Daniela, the owner of Ushuaia Turismo, hoping that there were still tickets left at the cheapest price of US$ 9200.  She said that there were still tickets available, and after an endless series of e-mails, problems in paying by bank transfer, reams of paperwork and the like, we were finally confirmed in early October.

After our Pyrenees and Corsica trips, Terri and I made our separate ways to Ushuaia from Switzerland.  Terri flew to New Zealand to visit her family and stopped off in Bali along the way, while I flew to Ottawa to visit my mother.  We rendezvoused at the Ushuaia Turismo office on October 25^th and collected our Antarctic gear (very warm waterproof trousers and massive overjacket, included in our package price) and settled in for our night in a very comfortable room in the building behind the office (also included in our package price). 

A little bit of Argentinian nationalist delusion on the waterfront

After an afternoon walking around Ushuaia and a long night’s sleep, we spent the next day getting ready for our afternoon embarkation, buying bottles of Argentinian wine (much cheaper than buying wine on board the ship), moving much of our cycling-specific and camping gear to the Hotel Antartida Argentina, where we were going to stay after the cruise).  It was only a few blocks’ walk down to the pier, where we went through various bureaucratic steps, admired the Argentinian obsession with the Falkland Islands (“Ushuaia is the capital of the Malvinas” is painted in big letters on the harbour wall; “We do not allow English pirate vessels to dock here” is the sign right at the tourist pier) and milled around waiting for the all-clear to go aboard.  Precisely at 4 pm we filed on board, put our luggage in our surprisingly comfortable cabin and went upstairs to the lounge for our welcome toast on board.  The Ushuaia has a capacity of 87 passengers, and we were only 77, so a few people got an upgrade in cabin class, to their delight.  In the lounge, the pastry chef (who became our favourite person on board) had created a gingerbread model of the ship, and another gingerbread company logo.  We met the people who would run our lives for the next 20 days:  Monika, our German expedition leader, and Agustin, her Argentinian sidekick; Kata and Ale, the two biologists, and Mariela, understudy to Monika and Agustin. 

Our gingerbread expedition ship

We also met some of the characters among our fellow passengers whom we would get to know over the following weeks:  Tom, the young chicken farmer from Australia with his biblical patriarch beard; Andrew and Emma, keen birders from England; Stefan and Claudia, birders from Houston; Yvonne and (another) Tom, who had won the trip in a contest run by a radio station in Holland; Oz, an 86-year-old Australian, born and raised in Turkey, who had been to Antarctica five times, including two overwinterings, for work, and whose last item on his “bucket list” was to see the grave of his hero Ernest Shackleton on South Georgia.  We sipped our welcome champagne, listened to the first of many, many briefings outlining rules on the boat, and had our mandatory lifeboat drill.  We filed into dinner in the dining room and had the first of a series of really good meals that would pace our days, and then Terri and I went out onto the upper deck with our Singleton’s single malt to toast the start of the trip.  It was a full moon, and the sea and wind were calm as we steamed east along the Beagle Channel, our wake glimmering in the moonlight.  It was a perfect start to our long-awaited adventure.

Beautiful water on the Beagle Channel

The next morning, after sleeping very well, I was awoken (as would become the norm) by Monika’s voice over the loudspeaker telling us that we were back in Ushuaia due to a “serious situation” and we would have a pre-breakfast briefing to explain the situation.  As Terri and I headed out of our cabin, it became clear that the problem related to a fire, as a giant pile of smouldering cardboard was on the deck just outside our cabin door.  A strong smell of smoke permeated the boat.  As we assembled in the lounge, rumours and stories circulated about what might have happened.  When we had all appeared, Monika told us that there had been a fire in the walk-in freezer compartment of the ship that had been found the night before as we were heading to bed.  It had been burning very slowly for a while, probably since the morning, and was only smouldering because of the lack of oxygen in the sealed freezer.  The crew had sprayed water on the outside of the freezer to reduce the temperature, and then carefully aimed fire extinguishers inside the freezer without opening the door more than the minimum, to avoid feeding oxygen to the flames.  They had turned the boat around and headed back to Ushuaia while the crew continued to extinguish the fire, and the smouldering wreckage outside our cabin was the start of a long process of removing months-worth of frozen food boxes from the freezer before the entire freezer could be examined for further damage and the cause of the fire.  Then the Argentinian Coast Guard would have to certify the ship as sea-worthy, the freezer would have to be re-stocked and we could head out again, probably in two days. 

Cormorants near Ushuaia

We were disappointed; Monika told us that the recertification as sea-worthy was not a guaranteed deal, and that the underlying cause of the fire had to be identified and the electrical system on board comprehensively checked.  We had visions of the entire expedition being cancelled, and our dream trip going up (literally) in smoke.  Even if we did sail, if the delay were long enough, would they have to cut one of our three destinations from the itinerary?  Terri and I mused about this that morning as we spent that morning soaking up unseasonably warm sun and warmth on the upper deck, reading and juggling and sketching.  We gathered for lunch and another briefing:  the ship’s electrical system was apparently not at fault and it seemed a cigarette end or something similar had ended up in one cardboard box in the process of loading.  Monika was modestly optimistic that we would be able to get underway the next day.  Some passengers were less hopeful, and Stefan and Claudia, having read the fine print of our contract of passage, told us that Antarpply, the company running the trip, was under no legal obligation to refund us anything for days lost on the trip or even for complete cancellation.

Upland goose in flight

That afternoon, to give the passengers something to do while the crew continued to empty the smoky wreckage into a giant garbage container on the dock, we embarked on a couple of buses for a tour into the mountains behind Ushuaia.  The intentions were good, but a bus tour on an overheated vehicle put half of us to sleep, and the views that we should have had were swallowed by low clouds, rain and snow flurries.  We drove past the local ski resort, and past cross-country ski areas where snow still lingered with ski tracks still visible.  We went over the Marconi Pass and down to Lago Escondido, a small lake full of birds that woke me up enough to spend a happy half hour with my binoculars looking at unfamiliar species.  We snoozed our way back to the ship for dinner and another briefing.  Monika told us that now everything hinged on the Coast Guard’s approval of the ship’s seaworthiness, and the speed with which provisions could be bought and delivered.  She was hopeful that the OK would be given in the morning, and that we would be able to sail the following afternoon.  She also said that the company was arranging a boat trip around the Ushuaia area to look at wildlife the next day.  We went to bed more hopeful that the day before.   

 

Sea lions lolling around near Ushuaia

The boat trip, on a catamaran run by Rumbo Sur, was excellent.  It was one of those outings flogged by outfits all over the Ushuaia waterfront at greatly inflated prices that we would probably never have paid for ourselves, but now that it was a freebie, we could enjoy ourselves.  We headed out to several of the tiny rock outcrops that dot the Beagle Channel to view cormorants and sea lions.  Everyone’s cameras snapped into action, and I realized that the big group of 14 Argentinians who hung around together were a group of professional, semi-professional and serious amateur photographers under the guidance of one of Argentina’s most renowned photographers, Marcelo Gurruchaga.  Some of our other passengers also had huge, impressive cameras with lenses the size of a small bazooka, and the air was thick with the sound of clicking shutters.  We then headed over to a small island where we could go ashore and check out some of the bird life.  The weather was sunny and warm, and the light on the kelp geese and upland geese was perfect.  We returned to the boat re-animated, and another excellent lunch with a baked apple dessert (the pastry chef would quickly become one of our favourite people on board) we had a lecture on sea birds and then set off by 4 pm, larders restocked and optimism rekindled.  Monika also told us that Antarpply had agreed to give us all a 10 percent discount on the price of our trip (having lost 2 days out of 20, that seemed fair enough), so Stefan and Claudia’s worst fears weren’t coming true. 

We steamed along the Beagle Channel again, this time earlier in the day, and by the time we were tucking into a delicious salmon dinner, the ship was just beginning to leave its sheltered passage and head into the open South Atlantic.  I started to feel queasy just after dessert, and suddenly had to run upstairs to be seasick over the side.  It was my body’s signal to me to go to bed immediately, and I did so.

I slept well, woke up and headed to breakfast the next morning feeling refreshed.  Breakfast was always a big buffet, well-stocked with fruit, toast, cereal, yoghurt, bacon, eggs and croissants, and I was devouring my morning quota of bacon and eggs when another wave of nausea drove me outside again.  I took some seasickness medication, went back to the cabin, read, napped through lunch and awoke feeling completely better.  This time going upstairs in the rolling sea had no effect on my well-being and I spent the afternoon on deck with most of my fellow passengers, watching the seabirds that tirelessly followed in our ship’s wake.  

The Falklands flag flying over the MV Ushuaia

Black-browed albatrosses and southern giant petrels were among the most numerous and prominent of the ship-followers, but smaller birds such as prions and Cape petrels and storm petrels were mixed in, while occasionally a huge, slower-moving wandering albatross or royal albatross would show up behind.  It was a wonderful spectacle, under clear skies and brilliant sunshine.  By mid-afternoon we were coming into sight of land, the furthermost western outliers of the Falklands Archipelago.  

On the beach at New Island, West Falklands

Our destination was New Island, a penguin, cormorant and albatross nesting ground, and by 5 o’clock we were dressed up for our shore expedition and queuing up to board our Zodiacs to be shuttled to the island.  The late-afternoon light made for dramatic colours, and we put ashore on the beach amidst oystercatchers, kelp geese and upland geese.  The island was once a sheep station, but is now run as a nature conservancy, providing shelter for many thousands of black-browed albatrosses, rockhopper penguins and king cormorants, not to mention almost a million fairy prions (of which we saw precisely none).  We said hello to the couple running the island, took some photos on the beach and along the path through the tussock grass, and then, atop a cliff looking out to the open South Atlantic, we came to the nesting site.

Terri amidst the penguins, albatrosses and cormorants

It was an unforgettable hour and a half that we spent there taking photos, looking through binoculars or just gazing in wonder.  In incredibly close quarters to each other, completely mixed together, the three nesting species jostled for space, squawked cacophonously and posed for our cameras.  My favourites were the rockhopper penguins, small birds with bright yellow “hair” on their heads a bit like bleached punk Mohawks.  They made their way painstakingly uphill from the ocean beach far below, hopping their way up one rock at a time.  

Punk rockhoppers

The cormorants too were visually striking, with bright blue eyes and weird orange patches of crumpled skin, like balls of felt, at the top of their beaks.  From time to time they would make their way to a convenient launching point and hurl themselves into the air to go fishing offshore.  Meanwhile the albatrosses, looking out of place because of their much larger size, perched atop small earthen nests or else soared effortlessly overhead.  

Cormorants

We sat in the tussock grass, less than a metre away from the melee, and soaked in the sights and sounds.  I felt as though I were in a BBC nature documentary narrated by David Attenborough, and I could hear his unmistakeable voice giving a running commentary in my ear.  Eventually we climbed down to the ocean to watch the rockhoppers coming and going, and to get a view from underneath of the albatrosses.  

Rockhopper making his way slowly uphill from the sea

A few striated caracaras (aka Johnny rooks), a species almost endemic to the Falklands (a few are found on outlying islands of Chile down towards Cape Horn) flew by from time to time, almost lost in the maelstrom of cormorants and albatrosses.  And then, all too soon, it was time to trudge back to the beach, already in shadow as the sun sank towards the horizon, and catch a Zodiac ride back to the MV Ushuaia. Conversation over a supper of Manchurian beef was an excited babble as we relived our experiences, and we lingered in the lounge after supper to talk more with fellow passengers before heading upstairs for a celebratory taste of Ardbeg whisky.

Black-browed albatross soaring

We spent the night steaming around the outside of the Falkland Archipelago, and by 10 am the next morning (Friday, October 30^th) we were making our way through The Narrows to dock in Port Stanley.  The idyllic warm calm weather we had had on New Island was a distant memory, and we docked in a biting wind that sucked the warmth from our bodies.  Landing formalities seemed to take forever as HM Customs inspected the boat and our passports were stamped.  Finally we were released and Terri and I led the charge into the wind on the half-hour hike into town from the ferry dock.  

The town of Port Stanley has a population of only 2100 people (out of the 3000 who inhabit the islands), and it’s a tidy, neatly-kept town of low-rise houses, each with a Land Rover parked outside (there are essentially no paved roads outside the capital).  Terri and I were headed in search of fish and chips, and after we couldn’t find our first choice, we ended up at Shorty’s Diner, run by a Chinese family, where we had great fish and chips and beer.   The clientele were all local residents (always a good sign) except for a couple of soldiers from the UK military base which is there to dissuade the Argentinian government from launching a repeat of the 1982 invasion.  The local accent was very English, and the money we got back in change from our meal was the local version of British notes and coins, with Falklands wildlife on the coins. 

Just in case the Argentinians were in any doubt....

As we walked through the streets, bundled up against the ferocious winds, signs of the islanders’ British identity were everywhere, from the local flag (a Union Jack in the corner and a coat of arms bearing a sheep in the middle) to the popular bumper stickers stating “The Falkland Islands—British to the Core!”.  

Falklands War Memorial

Terri and the Iron Lady, Port Stanley

We bypassed the local museum but walked out to the monuments to the 1982 Falklands War, featuring a bust of Margaret Thatcher (a local hero for her resolute response to the invasion; she is far more universally admired in Port Stanley than in any city in the UK, I would imagine) and a memorial wall for the 200 or so soldiers, sailors and Marines who died retaking the islands.  A bit further along the sea wall is an older memorial to a naval battle fought in the first year of World War One just off the Falklands between the UK and German fleets in which the British managed to defeat the Germans.  We walked past the neatly kept grounds of Government House, then headed to the Victory Bar for a pint.  This local watering hole was buzzing late on a Friday afternoon, partly with locals and partly with about half the passengers and crew of the Ushuaia.  The ceiling was decorated with hundreds of tiny Union Jacks, and military-themed displays covered the walls.  I wondered what the Argentinian crew of our ship made of it, and how it squared with the nationalist obsession with recovering the islands that makes up so much of their schooling and upbringing.

The Victory Bar, Port Stanley

We struck up a conversation with a local guy who works in the fishing industry, and after a couple of pints we had learned more about Falklands history and current affairs than we would have gained from an afternoon in the museum.  The Falklands have become very wealthy over the past 30 years thanks to selling fishing rights to Spanish, Japanese, Taiwanese and other fishing fleets.  Very few Falklanders work directly in the industry, except, as in the case of our conversational partner, in the organization of fishing permits and arranging of local business partnerships.  The fishery, for the lucrative Patagonian toothfish (aka Chilean sea bass) is said to be one of the best managed fisheries in the world, with fish populations and sizes healthy and thriving.  The revenue from these fisheries pays for most of the Falklands government budget, allowing for low income taxes and government schemes to pay for any Falklander graduating from high school to go to the UK to pursue higher education free of charge.  I couldn’t imagine the current Argentinian government, with its chronic economic mismanagement, being able to run the islands nearly as efficiently.

WW2 war dead from the Falklands

Our interlocutor was a small boy when the Argentines invaded, and he remembers the young Argentinian conscript soldiers being baffled by why they were being greeted with sullen indifference and active hostility, instead of being welcomed as liberators as they had anticipated.  He seemed up to date on Argentine politics, and was modestly hopeful that if Macri won the presidential election (as he did a few weeks later in a run-off against the Kirchnerist candidate Scioli), Macri would tone down the angry nationalist rhetoric that has been a feature of Argentine pronouncements on the Falklands (Malvinas) for the past decade.  Just before we had to head back to the ship, the third-place game in the Rugby World Cup came on, pitting the surprising Argentinian team against the South Africans.  The locals were cheering the South Africans, but were pretty tolerant of the excited pro-Argentina cheers of our ship’s crew.  It was a hopeful sign that on an individual level Argentines and Falklanders could at least tolerate each other.

Albatrosses following our ship

Safely back on board, and having added three passengers to our roster (a Norwegian couple working on oil exploration off the Falklands—recent results were not very encouraging—and Aussie Tom’s mother Sally, a wonderful firebrand of energy who had been visiting friends in the Falklands for a week), we set off towards South Georgia and the next leg of our triangle of exploration, fully satisfied with the nature, history and present-day culture that we had seen in the Falklands.

Click here for more photos from this section of our trip!

Corsica (and Sardinia) the easy way (Retrospective: September-October 2015)

When Terri and I were ruled out of the GR20, Terri for her sore leg and me for my sciatica and sore hip, the question arose of what to do next.  We decided to rent a car for four days to explore the countryside and the beaches of Corsica.

Pasquale Paoli, Corsica's national hero

 The day after my birthday, September 14^th, we hobbled down to Corte station to pick up our vehicle from the local Europcar dealer.  We should have known to walk away after the first thirty seconds of dealing with the manager, a comic-book stereotype of an excitable over-the-top Italian (although he was a Corsican).  “C’est pas possible!  J’ai pas recu une reservation!”  We insisted and showed him our internet reservation, and he grudgingly allowed that he might be able to find a car for us.  It turned out to be a new black Audi A1 with turbo diesel injection, and we fell in love with it over the next 96 hours.

We loaded it up with our backpacks, bought food supplies and hit the road by 1:00, headed southeast towards the coast.  Traffic was light and we flow along until we reached Aleria, the old Roman capital of the island.  The ruins aren’t much to look at, but the small museum showed lots of Etruscan, Greek and Roman pottery and other finds that fleshed out centuries of occupation. 

After an agreeable hour and a half, we continued south towards Porto Vecchio.  The east coast road is straight but runs through a long series of towns, resulting in more traffic and slow progress.  We turned off eventually to meander around a pretty coastal headland north of Porto Vecchio, through sprawling developments of upmarket holiday homes similar to those found all over the Mediterranean coastline.  We bought a bit more food in a huge Casino supermarket, glad to escape the hugely inflated prices in the GR20 refuges, then turned down a campground that wanted 30 euros for one night’s tenting.  We ended up in a neighbouring place that charged 17 euros, still relatively expensive but less outrageous.  We had a big fry up of lamb chops, potatoes, onions and mushrooms, plagued by persistent hornets, before sleeping soundly.

On the beach at Palombaggia

The next day dawned bright and sunny and we decided that we needed a dip in the ocean.  After a leisurely lie-in and breakfast, we drove out along the peninsula to Palombaggia beach and settled in for a bit of swimming and lazing, which was exactly what the doctor in Corte had ordered.  The shoreline was pretty, backed by red rocks and with water of the postcard perfect shade of aquamarine.  Swimming felt better on my tortured left hip than walking or sitting in a car.  We didn’t manage to drag ourselves away from the beach until 2:00, whereupon, after another grocery run we headed inland a few kilometres to an obscure prehistoric site called Talla.

Corsica abounds in prehistoric ruins, and I wanted to take advantage of our wheels to see a few of them.  Talla proved to be very atmospheric, atop a granite outcrop reached through an ancient overgrown stand of trees, and we contentedly munched our way through a roast chicken, looked out at the high peaks inland and poked around the ruins of a megalithic fortress-dwelling. I loved having it to ourselves, a rare pleasure in overcrowded Europe.

Talla's megalithic gateway

Our next stop was the southernmost town on Corsica, beautiful Bonifacio.  We drove in, around the inner harbour with its bobbing megayachts, and uphill into the old town.  We parked the car and walked into the narrow streets of the Genoan town, revelling in the views over the white limestone cliffs extending east of town, set afire by the setting sun.  Bonifacio was pretty and felt a bit like Santorini, perched high above the azure Mediterranean.  Also, like Santorini, it is a victim of its own fame, with overcrowded streets and overpriced restaurants lining the old streets.  We had a fun wander around, checking out the old church, and then fled to a campground outside town, having failed to find a good spot to watch the sunset over the sea.  We had a dinner of roast chicken, salad and pate washed down by a fine Cotes du Rhone red wine.  I had to admit that two days of driving seemed to have been worse for my hip and back than two weeks of trekking had been, and my hip seemed to be tied into a tight knot of muscles that were only getting tighter.

I summarized the next day in my diary as “three swims and Filitosa”.  We started with a relaxed morning of reading, muesli and a highly successful experiment in using my Outback Oven equipment to bake brownies on my MSR stove.  We gobbled down some of the results, then drove off for a swim in a small cove (Cala Lunga) east of our campground that was pleasant, although not spectacular, with the distraction of trying to keep a hyperactive stray dog from eating or urinating on our stuff.

Lovely aquamarine Roccapina

 By 12:30 we were in the car, headed west along the south coast.  As we turned inland at Roccapina, we stopped to admire the view and spotted an idyllic little beach below.  It was a long, bumpy detour along a narrow track, but the swim was worth it.  Roccapina beach was easily the nicest beach we found in Corsica, a shallow white sand bay much beloved by yachties.  The water was calm, a perfect temperature and a truly exquisite shade of turquoise.  It was almost impossible to get Terri out of the water and back in the car to look at a bunch of prehistoric rocks! 

We reached Filitosa, Corsica’s most well-known prehistoric site, around 4:30 after a winding and scenic drive past the town of Sartene.

Filitosa statue-menhir

 I was reading Dorothy Carrington’s brilliant travel account of Corsica, Granite Island, and she tells the story of the discovery of the ancient ruins on the property of the friends with whom she spent a long vacation.  The countryside has changed immensely since those days in the late 1940s when local travel was by donkey cart, but the site itself has an atmosphere of absolute timelessness.  I loved Filitosa’s setting, its famous statue menhirs and the huge megalithic structures.  For such a famous spot, there weren’t so many tourists around, and the late afternoon light on the enigmatic stone faces caught their subtle features perfectly.  We backtracked slightly towards the Gulf of Valinco to find a campsite near the ocean.  We had a sunset swim on a somewhat rough dissipative beach that made getting in and out a bit tricky, then cooked up pasta and ate more brownies before falling asleep happily in a Filitosa-like granite outcrop in an almost-deserted campground.

Filitosa artwork

The next day, September 17^th, was our last full day with the car, and we were determined to make the most of our mobility by exploring the hill country and mountains of the south, crossing the GR20 so that we could see a bit of what we had missed.  It was cloudy when we awoke, so we decided to skip a morning swim in favour of a bit of a sleep-in.  Terri used a trekking pole to massage my hip and periformis muscles, which were still not really feeling much better after a few days off from trekking.  We gobbled down some muesli and hit the road by 9:50, backtracked further to the slightly forbidding town of Sartene and then up into the mountains to the village of Caldane, where a local hot spring provided a relaxing, therapeutic start to the day.  It was marketed as a “Roman bath”, but it was only developed in the late 1800s, so the marketing wasn’t too accurate historically. 

We were pretty relaxed as we climbed into the car to drive further uphill to the wonderful prehistoric sites of Cuccuruzza and Cupale.  These are more megalithic settlements, rather like Filitosa, but the real appeal is that to reach them involves hiking a couple of kilometres through a beautiful hardwood forest littered with granite outcrops, some of them used as prehistoric rock shelters.  The structure of the Cuccuruzza citadel is even more impressive in its construction than Filitosa, although sadly it has none of the carved statuary that makes Filitosa so memorable.  The windows and internal rooms are still clearly visible in the massively thick walls, and the tower rises up above it in typical Sardinian nuraghi style (the Torrean culture in Corsica has obvious roots across the water in Sardinian Nuraghic culture).  Cupale lay further along our idyllic forest trail and was a medieval citadel built by the Italian lord Bonifacio who reconquered Corsica for the Pope back in the 9^th century. 

Carbini's memorial cross

We made our way back to the car and drove a bit further to the heretic’s village of Carbini, where a barren hill behind the town features a small interpretive trail that tells the sad history of the 14^th century sect of the Giovanalli that arose in the village and died in a bloodbath atop the hill after the Papacy called down the wrath of crusading knights on the heterodox villagers; the entire village was butchered on the hill, a gruesome event that was commemorated by a stark cross on the summit.  The story reminded me a bit of the fate of the Cathars in the Languedoc a century before, although this was apparently more about a wider crackdown by the Church after the Black Death on Franciscan friars who were too keen on poverty and renouncing worldly wealth.  The view from the cross over the surrounding mountains and villages was beautiful and showed how little of this area of Corsica is under cultivation today.

We drove further uphill towards the Col de Bavella, where a series of pointy granite fingers, the Aiguilles de Bavella, raked the sky.  We parked the car and walked a few hundred metres along the GR20, passing a few trekkers on the penultimate leg of the GR20 and wishing wistfully that we were doing the same.  We drove downhill, through a wonderful rocky valley full of swimming holes, until we stopped for the night at a riverside campsite right next to a perfect swimming hole.  We had a clear starlit evening to enjoy a dinner of lamb chops.  As we cleaned up from dinner, a fox appeared and stole some of the bones.

The next morning we knew that we had to bring back our car by 11 am, so we got up, made eggs, had a quick dip in the river (surprisingly un-chilly water) and then loaded our gear into the car and headed back to Corte, arriving by 10:30.  We tanked up the car and headed back to Europcar, where the day’s drama commenced.  The manager wasn’t happy with the fact that the car was dusty, and as he complained about it, he decided that the dust streaks down the side of the car constituted scratches in the paint (leaves had brushed against the car’s door while driving down to Roccapina beach) and that as such that would cost us the 850-euro deductible.  Given that even if the car were repainted, it wouldn’t cost that much, we weren’t willing to agree to any such thing, and then we listened to lots of chest-puffing and shouting.  Terri proved to be a dab hand at dealing with blowhard bullies, and we agreed that if we could arrange the removal of the subtle paint scratches ourselves by the end of the day, we would call it quits. 

Corte's citadel

We first ran the car through the car wash down the street.  If we had done this first, the manager wouldn’t have noticed anything to begin with, but now that he saw the prospect of making some easy cash, he found three vestigial scratches that still showed up in the right light.  He raced off to lunch grumbling and threatening loudly, and I went off to find a garage that could repolish the car professionally.  They were closed for lunch (Corsicans take their siestas seriously), but I was confident that they could do the job.  Terri and I went to the Casino supermarket to buy some lunch and while we were there, we found scratch remover for sale there.  We spent half an hour polishing away, and removed most traces ourselves, but it wasn’t going to pass inspection by Mr. Anger Management.  Once lunch was over, we drove the car up to the garage and the mechanic had a look at it.  He almost laughed at the idea that the car needed any work, but he knew Mr. Europcar by reputation, so he agreed to see what he could do with a high-speed polisher and some wax.  He gave us a lift back into town, where we sat in a café using wi-fi until it was time to collect the car and face the music again.  When we got to the garage, the car looked better than it must have done when it was new.  There was no trace of any scratches or irregularity in the gleaming black surface.  At 90 euros, this was a much cheaper deal than signing over our deposit.

We drove back to Europcar and the manager was forced to admit that the door had never looked better.  A cunning gleam came into his eye, however, as he now declared that we were late in bringing the car back and owed him another day of rental.  He clearly saw the prospect of making some easy cash slipping away from him, and was desperate to get some profit out of the deal.  Given that he had suggested that we go get it fixed ourselves, this was a bit rich, and Terri banished me from the discussion as she marched grim-faced back into the office with Mr. Europcar.  Fifteen minutes later she was back and we were free of any financial responsibilities, as her flinty negotiating style wore down the manager’s bluster and noise. 

Finally liberated, we were off on the 6:30 train to Ajaccio which left only half an hour late, crammed full of university students headed home for the weekend.  We arrived in the island’s capital just as the train station closed for the night, and spent a long while wandering the streets with our full packs searching for a cheap hotel.  The cheapest we found was 140 euros a night, so we decided to hike out to the nearest campground, Les Mimosas, about 5 kilometres from the port.  It was a long, tired trudge for my aching back and hip, and for Terri’s sore leg, but paying 15 euros made it worthwhile.  It was a well-run, if crowded, campground set in one of the eucalyptus plantations established in the 1930s and 1940s to drain the soil in an attempt to eradicate malaria, once a serious health threat on the island.

Porto's main beach

Terri swimming under the Genoan bridge, Ota

The next day, September 19^th, we wandered back into town, slightly less painfully after a long night’s sleep, and caught a bus to Porto, about two hours north of Ajaccio along the coast.  We had picked a location to spend a few days relaxing partly based on the three stars given to the nearby coastline, Les Calanches, on our Michelin map.  The bus ride was pretty at first, but as we approached Porto, it became spectacular.  The road narrowed into a single-land snake coiled through the improbably red spires of rock that make up Les Calanches.  Our bus driver, a loquacious Tunisian-born man named Uthman, was an expert at steering his big bus through the rocks, but the tourists coming the other way had more difficulty with the sharp turns and the rules of engagement when two vehicles meet on a single-lane stretch, and it took forty minutes to drive what should have taken no more than a quarter of an hour. 

Sunset apsara, Porto

We hopped off the bus and trudged to the Porto municipal campground, a sprawling eucalyptus plantation perfect for sheltering from the sun where we would spend the next four nights.

Porto is improbably pretty, a small port tucked into a gulf bordered on one side by the Calanches which we had just driven through, and on the other by a big marine sanctuary, Scandola.  Inbetween, underneath a Genoese watchtower, a small, tidy tourist town sits, gazing west towards the setting sun, its harbour sheltered by a manmade beach.  Over the next three days, we explored the beautiful inland river and swimming holes near Ota, bathing below a steep-sided old Genoese footbridge; took a boat tour out to gaze at the wonderful rockscapes, caves and tiny coves of Scandola and the Calanches; and watched some of the most perfect sunsets imaginable while sitting on the beach.  The beach itself, exposed to the open Mediterranean, was too rough for swimming two of the three days we were there, but it still made the perfect backdrop for sunset viewing.  It was a great place for the two of us to rest our tired and aching bodies after the damage we had done to them.

Marine reserve, Scandola

Finally, on September 23^rd, Terri and I hopped on a bus back to Ajaccio, driven by the affable Uthman, and said goodbye as Terri caught the bus to the airport and her date with the Swiss citizenship ceremony. 

Scandola scenery

I stayed on in Ajaccio, trying to get my sciatica repaired (more pills prescribed, this time stronger painkillers and anti-inflammatories), my cell phone repaired (it wouldn’t charge anymore; the solution was to buy an external battery charger) and my fix of culture at the Fesch Museum (a completely underwhelming gallery of European art which tries to make up in quantity what it lacks in quality).  I stayed another night at Les Mimosas campground, then caught a bus to Bonifacio, having decided to explore Sardinia in the days that I had remaining before my flight to Switzerland.

Corridor tomb near Anzachena

I stayed in a small and crowded campground close to the harbour, and the next morning I awoke early and made it onto the first ferry of the day across to Santa Teresa de Gallura.  The views of the early morning light on the white cliffs of Bonifacio were magical.  I got to the other side in an hour, walked to the bus station and caught a bus to Anzachena, where I wanted to explore some prehistoric ruins.  I found a local bike shop who charged me an extortionate 25 euros to rent a bike for the day and headed off in search of the Sardinian version of the megalithic culture I had explored in Corsica.  It was a good day, with a couple of corridor-style communal tombs, Codda Ecchju and Li Lolghi; a big megalithic village (a nuraghi, in Sardinian Italian) called La Prisgiona; Li Muri, a “cemetery” of four circular tombs near a fifth rectangular tomb; a classic nuraghi, Albucciu, much like Cuccuruzza on Corsica; and finally my favourite, Malchittu, a temple high on a hill after a 45-minute walk across a beautiful countryside littered with granite outcrops.  It was like a very primitive Doric temple, with a small sanctuary enclosed by a wall that once supported a gently sloping roof, and the views over the gentle Sardinian countryside, such a contrast to the harsh vertical world of so much of Corsica, were beautiful.

"Giant's tomb", Codda Ecchju

When I had returned my bicycle in town, I realized that I had been lucky to catch a bus earlier.  The bus company’s drivers were on strike, and there were only a handful of buses running, none of which were headed to Olbia, where I had planned to spend the night.  I jumped on the only bus I could find and headed 6 kilometres out of town to the tourist town of Caniggione, gateway to the beach resorts of the rich and (in)famous on the Costa Smerelda.  I pitched Terri’s tent in the local campground and ended up spending three nights there, as much through inertia as anything.  I didn’t do much for the two full days I was there, wandering into town to the local beaches (pretty, but not spectacular), eating, having sundowner beers in a bar near the marina and working on my Italian by reading the newspapers.

Finally, on September 28^th I roused myself and headed to the southwest of Sardinia in search of more history.  I hiked rapidly towards Anzachena to catch a bus to Olbia, only to see the bus drive right past the stop despite my frantic waving.  I decided to stick out my thumb and soon caught a lift with a young automotive engineer on his way to an English lesson, part of his plan to emigrate to the UK in search of work.  In Olbia I caught a train to Oristano and spent the trip talking to a marine geologist from Sardinia on his way to consult with colleagues.  In Oristano I went to the local tourist office and to the archaeological museum (one of the few things open over the sacred lunch break), where I saw a number of interesting finds from Thallos, a nearby Phoenician and Carthaginian ruin that I wanted to visit.  A local bus carried me out to Torregrande and a huge campground, where I rented a truly miserable bicycle (this time for only 5 euros) and headed to the nearby village of Cabras to see another archaeological museum.  After a number of small rooms of Nuragic and Carthaginian finds, the main event was a room full of the “Giants of Cabras”, a series of life-sized statues of warriors and boxers from three thousand years ago.  Only one of the six was reasonably intact, but it was impressive to come eye to eye with these stylized statues of so long ago.  There are more of these giant statues in other museums, particularly Cagliari, but it would be great to see them all together in one place like a Neolithic Terracotta Army.

"Giant's head", Cabras Museum

The next day I rented the same sad excuse for a bicycle and rode further afield to the ruins of Thallos.  It was a pleasant ride, past a roadside nuraghi and past the rich fishing ground of the inland lagoon that makes Cabras one of the few towns in Sardinia renowned for its fish and seafood.  Thallos is situated near the end of a peninsula, with the ancient city on one shore and some of the nicest beaches in Sardinia on the other.  I went up the Aragonian watchtower (as in Corsica, watchtowers dot the coastline from the days in which pirate raids from North Africa were a constant danger), then walked through the ruins.  They are extensive but not very excavated, with big areas awaiting future generations of archaeologists.  The acropolis was a nuraghic village before the Phoenicians arrived, and they put their Tophet (a place to venerate children who were stillborn or who died young) atop the megalithic ruins.  There were a number of Phoenician temples, a number dating to after the Roman conquest (in the First Punic War), and another very Egyptian-looking temple.  Two Corinthian columns, re-erected by archaeologists, were very photogenic with the backdrop of the bay and the mountains of southern Sardinia behind.  One of my favourite spots was a 9^th-century church rebuilt on a fifth-century Byzantine plan that is still in use. 

Byzantine church, Thallos

After all this culture, it was time for the beach, and it was one of the nicest swims of the entire trip, almost as good as Roccapina.  It was hard for me to drag myself out of the water to ride back to Torregrande; along the way I fell into conversation with an American doctor on an Experience Plus bike tour, reminding me of my long-ago bicycle-guiding days with Butterfield and Robinson. 

Thallos Beach

With my campground closing for the season the next day and my flight back from Corsica only a few days away, it was time to say arrivederci to Sardinia and head back north.  I caught trains and buses north as far as Santa Teresa Gallura, but just missed the last ferry of the day to Bonifacio.  I met Marius, a young German who knew a cheap B&B in town, and we headed there together.  20 euros a night got us wonderful rooms, a decent breakfast and a kindly landlady.  It was just as well that it was a nice place, since overnight a massive storm kicked up and we were stranded in Santa Teresa for an extra day as all ferries were cancelled.  The winds were impressive, and the Strait of Bonifacio was a boiling mass of white water all day. 

Finally on October 2^nd the waves and wind calmed down and Marius and I headed over on the earliest ferry to Bonifacio.  Corsica being Corsica, there were no connecting buses to Porto Vecchio for several hours, so we sat and chatted and sipped overpriced hot drinks until a bus arrived.  On the road north we saw evidence of the previous day’s storm in flooded roads.  Later I would find out that a number of people had lost their homes in flash floods, and when the storm reached the mainland of France another 19 people would lose their lives.  Marius and I said goodbye in Porto Vecchio as he headed off for a week of hiking and I settled into a hotel room.  I went to another doctor (I was running out of painkillers before I ran out of pain in my hip) and got another prescription.  For the first time, this doctor actually did some simple tests to make sure that it was sciatica; the previous two doctors had just written a prescription and been done with me.

Doric columns, Thallos

And then, finally, I was on my way back to Geneva and to Leysin after a whirlwind six weeks in the Pyrenees, Corsica and Sardinia.  It didn’t turn out the way I had planned it, and I was leaving with my body in pain, but I had enjoyed all three destinations.  I think that I would go back to Corsica again only with my own transport (bicycle or motorized vehicle), and I would concentrate on cycling the mountain roads in the northeast and south.  I would love to have seen more of Sardinia, but again having my own wheels would have made a huge difference.  The Pyrenees are what would appeal to me most, both for hiking and for cycling, and I could see myself spending more time there in the future.

Back in Leysin, after a week of packing up, it was time to head to Canada for two weeks and then to South America for the next chapter of my adventures:  Antarctica!