Different shades of white

A few dreamy Antarctica shots.  I'm enjoying memories today.  

Two teeny birds atop an iceberg.

Paulet Island, where we encountered three million Adelie penguins.  Three million!!!

And the prow of the Plancius, heading into an Antarctic dawn. 

Breakfast time in Laikipia

Yes, it is a kudu.  At the breakfast table.  

And not forgetting the squirrel.

They do things differently in Laikipia.

More small things

I'm finding lots of small things today. 

The best chicken pie in the world.  Decorated with stars so it knows how important it is.

Gooey pear cake, made with those long thin pears which are ripe for about half an hour before turning all grainy and mushy.

Our first silkmoth.  I couldn't even feel her on my finger.

And not forgetting the garden.  Ecclesiastical purple and pagan green.

Small things

Pussy willows in our office.  I was once told that if you put them in water then they blossom and die.  So we keep them away from the smallest drop.

And my favourite photograph of my mother, as a toddler.

Lunchtime schmunchtime

What do we usually do at lunchtime on a typical day's work?  Grab a slightly damp sandwich from the sandwich delivery boy and eat at the desk, typing with one hand?  Or maybe take five or ten minutes in the "break out" (I emulate the vernacular but always tongue in cheek) area to flick through the two-month-old Hello magazines found there?  Perhaps no time for lunch at all?

I know it's something of which we are all guilty.  Heavens, we spend nine hours a day there, shouldn't we have just a little break?

So, I did. 

A few weeks ago, I got in my car at lunchtime and drove to the far side of Putney, to a place I've seen as I drive past but never stopped to go in.  This time, I did stop.  Pulled on my winter coat and went for a walk. 

I walked through vast wrought-iron gates and along paths which petered out to grass.  Feet brushing against dewy dampness, not yet touched by the sun, I took a long, meandering walk.  But I wasn't alone.  On the left, a Laura Emma Wylie joined me.  On the right, a Mr George Brooks and his beloved wife Tabitha.  A little further along, partially concealed, I met Fanny Butts, formerly of Coldharbour Lane.  I was surrounded by hundreds of people.  

I find walking through a cemetery really quite comforting.  They are always quiet, contemplative.  Just a few birds and really not much more to disturb your thoughts.  I like looking at the gravestones, seeing who was here before, finding a common link.  For example, Laura Emma Wylie was married to John Wylie.  The same name as my great-uncle who has just passed away after a long illness.  I find myself imagining their lives, how they might have been, what they might have done.  I like standing in the middle of them and picturing who could be standing right next to me.  I like the peace and quiet, the colours of the moss on the old gravestones, the overgrown-ness of it all.  A dash of yew here, a clamber of ivy there.

Maybe it's just the getting out of the office for an hour, into the fresh air.  Perhaps I'd feel exactly the same had I headed to Richmond Park and taken a walk there, trodden in the footprints of the deer.  But I think I'll keep coming back here.  I'd like to see how it looks in spring, perhaps with a carpet of crocuses.  Maybe a dog rose or two. 

Certainly beats reading Hello magazine...

Antarctica Dreaming

I’d always thought I was an Africa girl, through-and-through. I loved the warmth, the wildlife, the people, so much so that I decamped to Zambia for two years, running a tiny little bush camp. But this was until we spent three weeks on an expedition ship, visiting the Falkland Islands, South Georgia and the unimaginably beautiful Antarctic peninsular.

Wonderful Man had been twice before. Each time he had been entranced, utterly captivated, and was determined that I should see it. And so it was that we found ourselves, aboard the MV Plancius and heading down the Beagle channel and into open sea, first stop Falkland Islands.

Did you know that the Falkland Islands are made up of 778 individual islands? No, nor did I – but they are, and each has its own character. Obviously we didn’t visit them all but our first stop was on Carcass Island. Here, in bright sunshine, we saw our first penguins – smart little Gentoos, nesting high up on the slopes and occasionally waddling down to the sea for a splash around. Our visit to Stanley the next day was a revelation. Barely larger than Burford, with brightly coloured houses, this was like walking into an English village in the 1950’s. Apart from it had a Waitrose. We learned about the Falklands Conflict, visited the memorial and the museum, tiny yet extremely moving. We saw handwritten notes from teenage Argentinian conscripts, pleading with the Falkland Islanders for food. They were never refused. Walking along the litter-free streets in the sunshine, bright yellow gorse bushes on each side, it was hard to believe what happened here for 74 days back in 1982.

Our next stop was South Georgia. Made famous by Ernest Shackleton who, when his ship became ice-bound and eventually crushed by the merciless Antarctic ice, he and three companions, leaving the rest of their party on Elephant Island, sailed across the notorious Drake Passage to find help. His words on reaching the Grytviken Whaling station (after trekking for 36 straight hours across South Georgia’s ice-capped mountains) are legendary; “Do you not know me, Sir? My name is Shackleton. Ernest Shackleton.” Here we walked amongst fur seals, enormous elephant seals, and landed on a beach with 750,000 breeding pairs of King penguins. Not to mention the chicks, little fluffy brown balls scampering everywhere. There were penguins as far as the eye could see, and it was a joy to just sit and watch as they interacted, gave their ecstatic displays, fed their chicks and waddled down the beach to surf into the waves and go hunting.

From South Georgia we had three days at sea, followed by, amongst others, albatross, Antarctic terns, skuas and giant petrels. The wandering albatross is the largest, with a three-metre wingspan, and has a delicate technique of dipping a wing tip into the water to turn. We were lucky enough to have three humpback whales come and investigate the ship, breaching, fluking and blowing mere metres from us.

We started to see icebergs on the third day, enormous blue-white floating palaces, dotted with penguins or seals taking a break from the water. A stop at Paulet Island gave us the mind-blowing sight of 1.5 million pairs of breeding Adelie penguins. If Kings are the most stylish penguin, then Adelies must be the most comical. They make their nests on bare rock (on snow the eggs would freeze) and, using stones, create a little mound on which to incubate. Problem is, Adelies are kleptomaniacs. Time and again we would watch as an Adelie would sidle up slowly to another nest, reach down, take a stone in its beak and then run like fury back to its own nest, being pursued by the furious theftee. Once said stone was deposited, it would start again, with some nests being burgled from both sides.

The highlight of the trip for me was our zodiac cruise in Neko Bay. In the brightest sunlight, we embarked on our ten-man zodiacs and cruised amongst the bergs. The light was impossibly bright, the snow radiating from the surrounding mountains, and we drifted up close to icebergs, four-fifths of their body below the surface and coloured the brightest blue from the water. Penguins darted under the boats as we glided through, porpoising to check their surroundings before disappearing again below the water. Each side of us, the Antarctic mountains stretched into the sky, and occasionally a crack and a thunderous roar signalled that more ice had “calved” and fallen into the water, creating brand new icebergs. We cruised past a happy Weddell seal, fat and replete on his iceberg, and, unbelievably, singing. Not dissimilar to whalesong, these clicks, trills and chirps carry far across the water, communicating both presence and territory.

Leaving Antarctica, we travelled first through the Neumayer Channel, flanked on both sides by mountains blanketed in the whitest snow, dodging icebergs and at times forging a path through brash ice, the ship echoing with the crashes and bangs on the hull. From there the Gerlache Strait guided us to open sea, accompanied by a pod of orcas and a fin whale, the second largest after the blue whale.

There’s something about the bottom of the world that really gets under your skin. Maybe it’s the utter silence as the ship glides through mountains that shine in the sun. Maybe it’s the fact that it is utterly, utterly pristine. Or it could be that the animals found there really do have no fear of humans…because they have nothing to fear from them. There can’t be many better experiences than having an Adelie penguin come up and peck at your boot, or a juvenile elephant seal snuggle up against your thigh, relishing the warmth. It’s a land of contrasts, of staggering beauty, incomparable wildness. Long may it remain that way.

I do

Ooh now isn't that a lovely title for a post!  All those of you whose ears pricked up (metaphorically of course), well you'd be right.  Above is a photograph of me and my betrothed. 

Now, I have occasionally commented about Wonderful Man on this blog.  But I feel the need here to do more than comment - I feel the need to give him the biggest, most ginormousest compliment ever.  Boy has this chap lived up to his moniker....

So, we're on the MV Plancius, heading down towards Antarctica (quite the most incredible place I have ever been but more on that in subsequent posts).  We have just left the Falkland Islands, having spent a gorgeous day wandering around Stanley, which is reminiscent of a tiny English town in the 1950's.  It's the most beautiful sunset.  The seas are calm and milky blue.  There is a wandering albatross circling above.  But oh no!  My Wonderful Man has fallen over! 

Or has he.....?

Well, actually not.

He's down on one knee.  With a huge smile.  And a beautiful ring. 

You know that feeling that you get when you think that not only have all your Christmases come at once, but that you have also found that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, won ten million pounds, have learned to fly and are standing on the tippity tip top of the world?

Well, multiply that by a BILLION!

More to come soon.  For now I will sign off...as the future Mrs H!

And with wishes of sparkles and happiness to all.

Back home and movin' on

You know, you can tell it's been a good weekend when Sunday night rolls around and your cheeks are pink and tingly-stingy from freezing air, your legs are feeling deliciously tired from ice skating in your shoes, your head is full of Swedish hunter stories, told high up on a wooden platform above the trees, looking at the stars and the planets, and your voice is a little husky from too much talking, laughing and whisky. Then, you know it’s been a good weekend.

Y'see I'm feeling a bit nostalgic tonight. I'm remembering our trip to Sweden back in March – from where we returned, laden down with sild and memories, and with thoughts of return not far from our minds. Sweden's got it all. I'm blessed with the luckiness of having a friend who lives just north of Stockholm. Still fairly close to Uppsala but far enough into the countryside to still take seriously the rumours of a bear being seen in the local wood.

We slid around on a frozen lake, so solid that it can be walked across with no fear.  The ice was white and crackly (it crackled loudly as we skated over, eliciting loud squeals) and, as I discovered, the perfect palette for soppy declarations. 

Later on that night we took a walk into the woods.  By firelight, we drank hot glogg with almonds, and listened to the sounds of the forest.  I was convinced we were surrounded by wolves and snuggled up close to Per Anders' dog, burying my hand in his thick fur.  He was magnificent, a Swedish hunting dog, a Jamthund, bred for hunting elk.  He sat bolt upright, ears pointy, eyes glistening, every now and then deigning to give my hand a comforting lick.  The firelight cast brilliant colours on the trees above us. 

And then our jamthund led us home.

Spare a thought...

Now, it's not often that I'll take to the blog to complain. Hardly ever, in fact. But this time I have a point to make. And it's an important one. You see, it's Mother's Day tomorrow. Of course, every supermarket, card shop, chocolate shop and gift shop has been loudly crowing the fact to the heavens, insistent that we buy "that special gift for that special lady".

And I read this, glowingly proclaimed on the final page of the Telegraph magazine today:

"It's the stuff we don't say.
The pauses.
The squeeze of the arm.
The small hand finding the big one.
The half-hug.

Not many of us say "it" to our Mums.
We dutifully phone them every week.
We remember their birthdays.
We care about them - but we don't actually tell them.
It's just something of a given.
A glue that holds the world together.

But today is the day we come out with it.
We tell our Mum how good she is.
We say "I love you" without putting on a comedy accent.

It's the day of crinkly petrol station flowers, and last minute phone calls.
Homemade cards, chocolates and lukewarm tea from six-year-olds.
It's the day we tell her that we care.
That we know how much she's done for us.
And that she can finish our sentences - just this once.

But when all this is over.
When the Sunday becomes the Monday.
When the carnations droop and only coffee creams remain.
Our Mums will still be there.
Waiting. Listening. Helping.
With the hands that hold it all together.

Shouldn't every day be Mother's day?"

Now, I happen to think this is rather sweet. Really quite touching. Although there are others who may think it's a very cynical piece of marketing. That it bears no relation to my Mother, to your Mother, or anyone's Mother. That some copywriter has sat down and thought "let's exploit Mother's Day and tug on a few heartstrings". Cynical.

However, some people may think it's a beautiful piece of writing. That is, if their Mother happens still to be alive.

If, like many people, including myself, you have lost her, then it is simply a knife to the heart. Twisting mercilessly.

Just to be clear, I have nothing against Mother's Day. In fact, I agree with the sentiments of the writing above. We should tell our Mothers every day how much they mean to us, how thankful we are for their presence, their love and their comfort. We should, and anyone who doesn't should be ashamed of themselves.

But....(and there's always a but)

As the daughter of a dead Mother, this kind of thing is like reopening a wound that refuses to heal. The wound opens, and daily life rubs against it, like too tight shoes on a blister.

I'm not saying that we shouldn't celebrate Mother's day, quite the contrary.

But I think we should also spare a thought for all those who have lost their Mothers, who, instead of making breakfast, delivering flowers, sending cards and giving chocolates, will be visiting a grave, perhaps tidying up the grass which has overgrown it a little, putting flowers in a jam jar, and remembering, perhaps with sadness, perhaps with regret, but certainly with a huge sense of loss.

So to all those people out there who have made Mother's Day about selling products, think. Stop and think, just for a moment. And remember what it's really all about.

As for me? I will be one of those visiting a grave tomorrow. Luckily, with Wonderful Man at my side. But I will be there, putting flowers in a jam jar, tidying the stray grass.

And missing my Mum.

Sverige bound....

Off to the land of the ice and snow. And elks and enormous moon mountains, glaciers, lakes and trees. Icicles, footprints in powdery snow, clear skies and clean, clean, cold air that bites at your chest and makes crystals when you breathe. Wonderful.

We are off to Sweden, just for a flying visit. Long a favourite of mine and of Wonderful Man's, he actually lived in Stockholm for a year or so, long enough to learn a bit of Swedish and develop an appetite for sild, or swedish herring. We're off to visit friends who live north of Uppsala, in a tiny village on the edge of a forest where bears can sometimes be seen. We will drink hot glogg with almonds and raisins, eat cinnamon buns and talk long into the night huddled round a fire with the cold, blue snow outside.

I plan on bringing my moon boots and making snow angels. Wonderful Man is bringing his camera as the conditions look good for our elusive friends, the Northern Lights. Maybe we will be outside at midnight watching the sky dance with a bottle of whisky like we did in Iceland last year? Who knows. But I can't wait to find out.