A Return to Spring

 

Day 15: Some thoughts from quarantine

 

Although we have completed our minimum 14-day self-isolation quarantine period and returned 3 negative Covid tests, we have now entered group/bubble quarantine, and this will remain in place until we reach Antarctica. There are 10 of us in this bubble – we travelled down to the Falklands on the same MOD flight.

The thoughts that appear in this post are loosely based on the content of a letter which I recently wrote to a friend. I trust that he will not mind. Sometimes, it is only afterwards that we even begin to understand.

 

It occurred to me recently, that by the time I fly into Rothera this season I will have spent close to, or even just over 40 days in the Falklands during the past two years. It is somewhat strange to have spent so long here and yet seen so little (save for the inside of this hotel room). Or at least, that’s the face value way of looking at it I suppose. The truth is – when viewed in a different light – I have seen a lot, I have seen something that no one else in the world has. I’m aware that, in taking this view, it requires tilting one’s head at such an angle that will almost certainly incur a strain to the neck. And it’s an outlook that on some days has seemed so clear, but for a good proportion of the time I simply haven’t bothered to look.

The view is slightly different from this hotel room to the next, and whoever was here before me and whoever follows after will see a different world, a slightly different time of year. I must admit, that I was fully expecting it to be the same and to feel the same as last year – I was here for 18/19 days then. I even spent Christmas Day here, in hotel room by myself. And to really add to the occasion I had succumbed to food poisoning late on Christmas Eve. Thankfully, it was only a 24-hour bout, and we were able to board the ship on Boxing Day as planned. Not that a 5-day journey which included crossing the Drake Passage did much to improve my stomach. And while I hoped that particular episode would not be repeated, I couldn’t imagine that the oh so small existence of life in quarantine could be any different one year to the next. It had not even crossed my mind as a possibility – there simply could not be the scope for it to change. I came into it this year believing that I knew exactly what to expect. But too many different things and too many different people have passed this way, and I myself have passed through many different days and different places since. It’s not the same world, not the same as I found it then, nor the same as anyone else will find it from now on. If nothing else – we’ve grown a little older, and perhaps a little wiser, too. But what is this wisdom that we speak of – surely, it’s nothing more than the realisation of all that we do not know.

There is always so much to see. From the birds that peck at crumbs in the carpark, to the dandelions which open wide and brightly in the sun. And then there are the daily habits of where people park their cars, and which of them get locked and the many that never seem to worry. Without a doubt though, my favourite thing to look at and watch is the garden across the way - the garden with a few pots of daffodils. I forget most days what time of year it is here having left the U.K. in early October as the first signs of autumn were well underway. In normal, pre-Covid years, we would pretty much be straight down to Antarctica, save perhaps for a night or two in southern Chile. This transformation was easier to make sense of; it made sense to leave in autumn and to head into colder (albeit it much colder) climes. It won’t surprise you to learn that a summer in Antarctica bears absolutely no resemblance to a summer back home. It rains less for starters. Anyway, I keep forgetting that it is spring here, and the daffodils are such a delightful reminder of that. Every year, when the spring unfurls, I say to myself and to those around me that daffodils are my favourites - such a happy looking flower. And while this is the absolute truth, I then say the same thing when the bluebells appear and turn large swathes of woodland and the low reaches of the fells a vibrant purple. My truth changes yet again when the wild poppies and oxeye daisies colour the Eskdale valley road.

The house that the garden belongs to is the house which I picked out last year as being my favourite, and that is still the case. It has walls of a delightful turquoise, and the roof is the colour of warm terracotta earth. Most days, you can usually see the couple who live in the house pottering about in their garden. The man, who has a distinguished white beard, puts on a red coat when the weather turns colder in the wind, and he looks every little bit like Santa Claus. One weekend day will stick with me more than most, though. It was a Saturday morning, and the woman picked a bunch of daffodils and took them back inside the house – to put in a vase on the kitchen table, or on a windowsill, presumably. To me, it seemed as if she was carrying the most valuable treasure in the world – and I could not take my eyes away - not even for just a moment. And although that treasure did not belong to me, to simply witness it felt like treasure enough alone. In fact, I’m thinking now that perhaps true worth is seeing it in the hands of others rather then our own. Possession can seem so incredibly cheap sometimes – the things of greatest worth are, after all, impossible to own.