The Necessity of Memories

 

Letters from the Falkland Islands 

Of all the houses here, of all the houses I can see that is, I have a definite favourite. The walls, the horizontal wooden boards, are a vibrant turquoise. And the roof is that rusty orange, brown of corrugated iron. It’s the nearest house to the back of the hotel, and I can just make out the painting of a giant sunflower in the front room. From what I can see, the garden is full of interesting things; there’s a little bit of dry-stone walling, and a bare tree trunk about four feet tall. There is a large hedge to one side, with a set of ladders propped up against it. On one of the first days that I was here I saw a woman wearing a sunhat standing at the top of these ladders trimming the hedge back. For a while after I was slightly concerned – the ladders were still there, the hedge trimming not completed, and I’d seen no sign of the woman since. I tried to reassure myself that someone would have noticed, her husband at least, if she’d fallen off and was lying in a heap on the ground. Nevertheless, I was quite relieved to see them both out in the garden this weekend just gone.

The house reminds me of the time I spent in New Mexico – 3 months back in 2008. It doesn’t remind me of the houses there, but of the local turquoise jewellery, the turquoise trail that runs from Santa Fe to Albuquerque. And the roof of this Falkland Islands house is the colour of the earth in that now seemingly distant US State. This is a specific house, and that was a specific memory, but I started to realise that the triggering of memories was imbedded in where I was. After a while, I noticed that this place to which I had never been before started to feel oddly familiar. It all began to remind me of something, and it was such a strong reminder - like the nostalgia of a childhood Winter. But try as I might I could not place it, and it was then I began to wonder if it was simply the memories of a few days before. While I’m not sure for certain, this idea was nevertheless an interesting one to me. It made me think about the importance of things that have happened in the past, and about the necessity of memories. We look not only for connections to each other, but connections that run and weave like water throughout our own lives. In a strange place or situation, we above all want to feel a tie to something or someone. And I wonder if, during times of great uncertainty our memories become the things we live for. When any concept of the future has been almost entirely erased, our hopes must find a place to settle elsewhere. And the only place to go is the places we have come from. We take comfort in the way things were. Our memories are our hopes, and these memories sustain us. The thought that we can be with and hold our loved ones once more.

Hold on to your memories, for one day your memories will become your dreams.

Quiet Days of The Mind

 

Letters from the Falkland Islands

I woke at 6am. It was a calm, bright morning. At some point later on the heavens opened and a hailstorm ensued. The hail set a few car alarms off. That surprised me a little; most people don’t seem to bother locking their cars here. The weather is incredibly changeable, even more so than a Scottish summer. Given the frequent shift between sunshine and showers, I was surprised that I hadn’t seen any rainbows yet. I asked Brad about it, asked how many rainbows he had seen since he moved here. I hadn’t asked him anything for a good few days, and I also had a question about MI6. He couldn’t confirm an exact number, only that he had seen some. He wondered if it was a bad thing that he hadn’t been keeping count. There was also some confusion about the photo of a gull that I had sent him. He wondered if it was a Black-Footed Albatross, or a completely new species. I hurriedly informed him that it was a pink-footed gull of some sort, it was just that I had turned the photo into black and white.

It was one of those tired sort of mornings if I’m honest, one of those days when you can’t really focus on anything in particular. Yesterday, I suppose, was a day of many thoughts, and the kind of thoughts which your brain will only let you access for a certain period. I wonder why that is, why we don’t seem to be able to keep the important things front and centre. Why is it that we continually seem to revert to a largely unintentional, unexamined existence? Maybe it’s some kind of self-protection, a way of stopping us thinking or feeling too much. Maybe the mind just needs some quiet days. Either way, I found myself quite content to watch the comings and goings of this world, watching the cars pass, and seeing a few people wearing festive jumpers. I did have a little mystery to solve, though. Well, it was more someone else’s mystery than my own. I received a message from one of my cousins, complete with a photograph of the inside of a Christmas card. “Can you confirm whether this is your brother’s writing? We think it is, but we can’t make out the name for sure.” Now, my brothers; all three of them are really pretty smart. But for all they know, and for all they have learnt, I sometimes wonder if they were ever taught how to form letters properly. It’s quite remarkable that not one of them ended up becoming a medical doctor.

I had a nice afternoon out-the-window chat with Mags and Catrin. We tried to do a back-issue Guardian magazine quiz. We consoled ourselves by all agreeing that knowledge of certain things is vastly overrated. We talked about what we had ordered for dinner, but we are getting to the point where we can’t really remember. Mags, though, had finally got around to asking for a bath robe. It was after several days of me going on about how it had revolutionised quarantine life. But there was a bit of confusion somewhere along the line, and they ended up delivering her a bathmat. Unbelievable really, given that she had described it so wonderfully as a ‘towelling sort of jacket’.

The evening wore on, and it was soon time for my second outside slot of the day. Despite a slight mental weariness, or at least no real interest in being mentally engaged, I was feeling, physically, quite energised. I went out to the sheep pen and ran the second 5km of the day. There was sunshine, and then there were showers, and with that came the rainbows which I had wondered about earlier in the day. I smiled, and it was a smile that comes from not only seeing something of such beauty, but of feeling the wonder of it in your soul.

All the Things We Cannot See

 

Letters from the Falkland Islands 

There were three books left in this hotel room. Malvina House Hotel; Its artwork and its history, the Gideons Bible, and a Falkland Islands phone book. I’ve had a look through all of them, and while I quite enjoyed reading the adverts at the back of the phone book, and trying to figure out where Gandalf the Grey fits into the creation story, it’s the book of artwork which has held my attention the most. It’s full of beautiful watercolour paintings by Richard Cockwell, paintings of various landscapes from throughout the Falkland Islands. It’s a source of great wonder and joy to me, given that I have seen so little of this country with my own eyes. It’s also a lifeline of sorts – a connection to the world outside these four walls. I’ve taken to drawing a few of the pictures, and I’m hoping to catch a glimpse of this scenery when I board the ship on Boxing Day. It’s certainly a reminder, not only of the power of art, but of just how essential it is to us.

Right from the very beginning, amidst the often-brutal battle for survival, humankind have drawn and carved their stories into stone. Creativity is integral to us as a species; it is our connection to each other and to the world. We have language and all the power and beauty that is in words; but what of the worlds beyond that, what of the words we have never spoken, and all the things we’ve not yet seen. For centuries we have encountered the same problems, time and time again. You can look back to the words of ancient philosophers and wonder if we have learnt a single thing. Perhaps language for all its wealth is limited in some fatal way; how can we possibly think up a new vision without the words to frame those dreams. But there is art, and there is music, to show us the future and to speak those wordless things.

The book has also stirred some unexpected memories; at once both sad and beautiful. Some time ago now, a friend of mine produced a book of watercolours and other artworks. That same friend took her own life a few years later. As time moves on the things that remind you of them, the threads of life which connected you, can start to dwindle and fade. Life gets so busy, and I wonder if we should make more time to spend with our memories, make more time to tell the stories of those who are missing. Especially now, in a year where separation and disconnection are found the world over. Art was my connection to this friend – it was her book which brought us together, and it’s what I would love to still share with her now. There are many things we might wish had turned out differently, and there will be many more things in the years to come. But we will never know when the time has come around, and so, as they say, love the ones you’re with.

The In-Between Places of the World

 

Letters from the Falkland Islands

I didn’t sleep well last night. It was probably the wind and rain, or something like that. There doesn’t have to be a reason for it, I suppose. As I didn’t have much else to do, I ended up taking a long morning nap. I dreamt vividly; I dreamt of home, of the river Esk, and of a series of wonderfully rare post boxes. These post boxes were always found in pairs, and usually located in the stonework of bridges. One was no longer operational, and you could see why – there was another even older post box awkwardly stored inside. Another of the boxes, which I delighted in photographing, had a heart-shaped collection plate just to the left of centre. I was with my mum, and we were supposed to be going somewhere. But as usual, it seemed that I had become distracted by water and post boxes. It’s funny how dreams can be so incredibly true to life.

I woke fuzzy headed but was glad of what I had seen beyond closed eyes. I think I’ve done pretty well to get to day eight before resorting to writing about my dreams. It’s also the first day where I’ve started to feel the effects of quarantine. I wouldn’t describe it as boredom, but perhaps a slight dulling of the mind. There’s definitely an element of feeling like we are in limbo – it’s not where we’ve come from and it’s not where we are going. It’s hard to see it sometimes as anything other than one of the in-between places of the world. It’s not really that, though. After all, there’s not a single second excluded from this life. It’s just how we come to feel about it, from time to time. Thankfully, there is a surprising amount of structure to each day here. It mainly revolves around mealtimes, and the twice daily opportunity to go outside. I’m leaning heavily on that structure, and on making myself do certain things because I know it might help. I didn’t feel like writing today, but here we are anyway. And there are other elements to look forward to; a good friend is sending me a photo advent calendar from home each day. The photos are usually of their dog, Moss. But occasionally there’s a real unexpected gem thrown in, as well. A few days ago, she sent me a photo of the boiler at the hostel where they work. It still makes me smile. I’m fully expecting to receive a selfie on Christmas Day; this friend has quite reasonably come to conclude that the only explanation for her greatness is that she is, in fact, God’s only child and the Second Coming. I’ve also got a bunch of cards and letters that I have brought with me – some with instructions to open at certain times. I’ve put them up around the hotel room, including a miniature Christmas tree from Jen. All these things, all the messages from home, make such a massive difference. For what is this, what is this life, if it is not shared?  

 

‘It’s hard to imagine the world you left behind carrying on; it’s strange to suddenly not feel a part of it. But I needed to imagine it, and what’s more I needed it to still feel real to me. I wanted to absorb the new world that I was living in, but not to become utterly absorbed by it. It wouldn’t do to lose yourself somewhere so transient.’

Crop Circles, & A Bit More About Cats

 

Letters from the Falkland Islands 

Today marks a week of quarantine completed. All that really meant was that it was the day 7 covid swab test. It was someone different from the hospital this time, and there was very little preamble about it all. How are you keeping, and then a giant cotton bud gets shoved up into your brain? I knew that it wasn’t going to be good; moments before I’d heard Mags exclaim, ‘oh fuck me’, from the room next door. We hung out of the windows for the next thirty minutes all agreeing how brutal it was. Catrin was adamant that she suddenly felt a lot less intelligent, and that it was nothing to do with the time spent in this slightly suspended existence. We caught up with each other’s news, which was all pretty interesting today. Mags hadn’t been given any jam for her breakfast toast, but thankfully she had saved one from a previous day when the little jars were in surplus. Catrin had repeatedly been left without cutlery, but we didn’t ask too much about how she coped. I didn’t have any stories of loss to share, so I just showed them how I had managed to spill gravy on the hotel bath robe. I feel like I’m going to have to leave a note at the end of my stay explaining what happened there.

After a time, a well-dressed man wandered into the back carpark. We all waved and smiled. He said it must be nice to talk to someone different for a while, and then promptly walked off. To his credit though he returned about five minutes later to honour his statement. He was jolly nice; we talked about the weather and quarantine things. He even said that if he wasn’t too busy on Christmas Day that he might come back and throw us some sweets or something. I’m really hoping that he is not the Falkland Islands’ Santa Claus. After he left, I remembered that I hadn’t told the others about the older man with the distinguished beard who I’d been chatting to the last few days. Yesterday evening when I was out in the sheep pen, he suggested that instead of running around in the same old circle I should think about mixing it up and creating some crop circles. It certainly seemed like the best idea I’d heard in days. Better even than my idea to acquire a quarantine cat, believe it or not. Catrin suggested a satanic star of sorts, while Mags went for either a ‘H’ to create a helicopter landing point, or SOS as a cry for help. Either of those might be a touch irresponsible, but we settled on SOS because at least it reads as an apology as well. The next eleven or twelve days might be oddly productive. Oddly, being the key word there. My attempts to re-domesticate the missing cat requires a little more work and patience, though. I saved a scrap of bacon from breakfast and put it on a saucer when I went out for my morning exercise. I didn’t see a cat the whole time I was out, and when I sat down quietly on the grass after my run, I only had a few moments to wait before watching a regular sort of gull swoop down and eat the lot. But that is what hope and tomorrows are for, are they not?

The Cats of the Falkland Islands

 

Letters from the Falkland Islands

 

 

It’s chucking in down. I’ve just watched a white van reverse into a kerb. That’s about everything that has happened in the last ten minutes, that and the sound of Doug playing the guitar in the room downstairs. It hasn’t been like this all day; the morning was largely dry and sunny. I managed another 5km on the 30-meter grass ‘track’. I caught a second glimpse of the elusive black cat. I first saw it a few days ago; it made a dart across the sheep pen during a previous sunny run about. This particular cat has been officially listed as missing by the Falkland Islands Government for the past two and a half years. Even though there have been many sightings of this cat, they have all been but fleeting and no one has been able to catch a hold of it. By all but some, it now passes unnoticed; a long time has passed since the missing cat poster campaign. People have just come to assume, and come to accept that it doesn’t want to be caught. Some creatures are happiest going from place to place, after all. They live, never too sure where the next meal may come from. I doubt that is a serious concern for the cats of Stanley, though. There are enough cats around town to know where they might scrounge a meal from. I have observed no less than 10 different cats darting out of bushes, and crossing the steep street I can see clearly from this hotel window. I’m assuming that cat flaps are a thing in Stanley, but never having actually seen one here I can’t say for sure. Anyway, I suppose the owner of this cat still hopes and longs for its return one day. You’d definitely be inclined to think so, given that this cat is still listed as missing. However, this ‘status’ may not be the clear indication that you might imagine. You see, the Falklands Government would rather that cats and dogs be listed as missing rather than been classified as strays. Probably something to do with the reputation of the country and how that relates to the tourism industry. Anyhow, all this made me think, wouldn’t it be nice to have a quarantine cat? So, this afternoon, at 15.40, I went outside to the sheep pen armed with a saucer and the dregs of a UHT milk carton. Dutch, once he had learned of my plan kindly informed me that contrary to the commonly held belief, milk isn’t actually all that good for cats on account of its lactose content. I persisted with it unsuccessfully for this half hour, but vowed to try again tomorrow with a bit of bacon or something. Of course, there’s a chance that this will backfire spectacularly - if a flock of Turkey Vultures descends, for example.

A question about push ups, & the joys of running.

 

Letters from the Falkland Islands

 

Saturday 12^th December. 09.47.

 

I was asked a question by one of my brothers, Rory. “How are the push ups going?” The push ups went pretty well on day one, but since then my arms have been aching so much that I haven’t done a single one. The same can be said for sit ups, squat jumps, and burpees. Ha. It’s amazing how quickly my ankle injury from a few weeks ago suddenly seemed to recover. So now I spend my outdoor exercise time trying to run 5km on a 30-meter grass ‘track’. Running round in very small circles, changing direction after every five minutes or so to prevent dizziness setting in. It’s oddly thrilling, though. Maybe it’s the simple wonder of being outside, a change of scenery to inside the hotel room. It’s also the pure joy of running, of running for running’s sake alone. It certainly has meditative qualities, I find myself getting lost in the simple movements, and noticing each and every slight undulation of the earth. I’ll take in the smells of the nearby sea, feel the sunshine and the breeze upon my skin.

I never hold that level of focus for the entire time, though. A conversation will start up with someone from one of the hotel windows. Or the game of ‘trying to guess the entire contents of the Historic Dockyard Museum’ will start up again with my morning exercise partner, Rob. We can see this museum from the sheep pen, and it’s amazing how much you start to wonder about all the things that you can see but are just out of reach. It’s that human instinct to discover and explore; we are always asking questions of the things we do not know; we always want to know more. Our guesses at first were perhaps not the most imaginative, we didn’t get much further than really old anchors and matchstick ships. But we’ve still got a long way to go in quarantine, so it’s probably pretty good that we didn’t peak too soon.

Letters from the Falkland Islands. Friday 11th December. 20.26.

 Letters from the Falkland Islands 

Early on in this period of quarantine, during my first allocated outside slot, I made a quite wonderful discovery. If you stand in one particular spot in the sheep pen, if you stand on tiptoes and crane your neck; it is possible to make out two red phone boxes and the unmistakable top of a red pillar box. Every time I’ve been out since I always make sure I get a glimpse of it. I’m not entirely sure why I love post boxes so much, nor why a week’s holiday in Scotland turned into a bit of a post box quest. I suppose it’s the magic that surrounds it all, the magic of letter writing. It’s about connection and communication, it’s about taking whoever you are in the moment of writing and giving that part of you to someone else. There’s an honesty and thoughtfulness to it all that seems to have been lost in the instantaneous world we’ve come to inhabit.

A few days later, or it might have just been the next day, I realised I was encountering a coffee shortage. Now, although we are in quarantine here, in a different country, we have not just been left to fend for ourselves. The British Antarctic Survey (BAS) have two logistics coordinators based in the Falklands; Liz and Brad. Now, the only extra coffee the hotel could seem to provide was decaff (which is not really coffee at all), so I messaged Brad and he was able to sort me out a jar of Nescafe. Brad also said that if there was anything else at all just to let him know. What followed was probably not the usual kind of request he receives. I asked, if it wasn’t too much trouble, would he be able to take a photo of something for me. I explained about the post box, explained it in a way that would have left him in no doubt that I was either a little bit of a geek or someone who wasn’t taking to quarantine too well! I even had to ask him to go back and take a second photo, because the first one he sent me was just of the royal cypher and not the box in its entirety. Thanks Brad! Christmas really does come early sometimes.

Wednesday 9th December. 21.23. & Into the night.

 

Letters from the Falkland Islands

 

There is still a little light clinging to this day. I’ve just ordered another whisky from the bar. It’s the second day of a nineteen day stretch of quarantine in this hotel room. That’s if everything goes to the current plan. It has felt like a long one, but not in the sense of boredom or anything like that. It’s just that it has been full of different moods and emotions, I suppose. I had the first of three covid swab tests earlier this afternoon; it wasn’t too bad, but it did feel like they took a little bit of my brain out as well. I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t at all anxious about these tests. Not the tests themselves, but the knowledge that a positive test result would put a halt to my progress South. Antarctica is the only covid-free continent, and it’s vital that it stays that way. I haven’t got any symptoms, and I’ve been as careful as I can – even slightly paranoid at times. But of course, that’s no guarantee of anything, and it’s really not easy to shake the lingering possibility of ‘what if?’ I knew this all from the outset of course, I knew there would be this period of uncertainty. But knowing a thing and experiencing the real-life doubts are vastly different. You can’t really know how you’re going to feel until you’re feeling it. And even then, we don’t always have the words to put to it. I’ve been dwelling on this a little – it’s easy to dwell on things in certain circumstances. Of course, it does no good, when has worrying ever changed a thing. So, I’m trying to drag myself away from it, and is often the case the only way to do that is to face it head on. This (writing) is my attempt at that today. It’s not the only thing that has helped, though. And it’s funny the places that we find help, and the things that give us hope. In this case I found it in a tin of biscuits. This in many ways is a story in its own right – the story of the Eskdale Fell Runners. But I’ll save that for another time, because some stories are worth the telling in full. Just before I went away, the six other members of the Eskdale Fell Runners (formally established summer 2020) gave me some cards and presents. I brought the cards with me, along with a miniature Christmas tree. There was also room in my bag for a box of biscuits which I had just assumed contained the contents listed on the tin. But when I opened them this afternoon to have with a cup of tea, I found it full of ginger biscuits made by Ali’s husband, Ian. These biscuits are made in the shape of Herdwick Sheep, and gingerbread style biscuits are one of my favourite things. It was such a strong reminder of home, and of the last time I was sat out down by the coast with those friends. It was a reminder of the constant things in life, and of remarkable friendships forged in uncertain times.

Wednesday 9th December. 08.05. Stanley, Falkland Islands.

Letters from the Falkland Islands

It’s raining. The rain seems to have quietened the nearby chickens, at least. It seemed strange to discover it was raining, I actually had to do a double check out of the window. I wondered why this was, and I suspect it’s simply because it has been bright and sunny here since I arrived and that was, up until now, all I’d ever experienced of this place. I also wonder if we find rain in any new country strange and is the rain in fact different wherever we go? How similar is this to Eskdale rain, for example? I’ll find out soon enough, it’s not long until the first of my allocated two half hour outside slots of the day. We are allowed out into this roped off grassy area in front of the hotel – this area has become affectionally known as the sheep pen. The sheep pen is about 15 metres long, and 5 metres wide. We have a printed schedule for the times we are allowed out; the area is too small for all of us quarantining here to be out at once. There are 14 of us here at the moment, mostly Twin Otter pilots, air mechanics, and air support, a few field guides, a MET forecaster, Mr Halley, and me (Station Support Assistant). Many are friends from previous Antarctic seasons. Only one I’ve never met before, and another I’ve only met once briefly – we had a few hours cross over on station last season and we had a conversation about post-it notes and drawings on a white board. It’s kind of funny how I’m in a country I’ve never been to before, but the majority of the people I’ve seen are familiar faces. The sheep pen is on the other side of the hotel to my room, which means that twice a day I get a different view. I also get to say hello to those who have rooms which look the other way; they come to the windows and we chat for a bit, or they just watch as I do some keepie-ups or run round in really small circles. It’s amazing how our definition of entertainment substantially changes during quarantine. Although, some things are just outright exciting. When I was outside yesterday, kicking a ball about from one end of the sheep pen to the other with Dutch, I was dive bombed by a Turkey Vulture. In reality, this enormous bird was at least 20 metres away from me, but it felt pretty dramatic especially when Dutch informed me that they will just swoop down and carry anything off. He even sent me a link later to a website full of information about these birds and assured me that it was a genuine website and not something that he had created in spare moments of quarantine madness. I am a little dubious about their ability to carry off humans, though. 

Letters from the Falkland Islands

 

8^th December 2020.

Woke up at 4am. It appears that there is a cockerel which lives in close proximity to the hotel. The daylight made me think that it was much later, made me think that I’d missed the breakfast which is left outside the door at 8am every day. That’s what happens when you move from winter to summer in 24 hours. There’s a touch of the surreal about it all; it seems like no time at all since I was driving down to Brize Norton in the freezing fog of an English winter. No time at all since I was swimming in the river Esk at first light, and saying some goodbyes, and hugging my mum for the last time in a while. That’s the beauty of air travel in some ways; you’re on the other side of the world in a few blinks of an eye. But it’s an awfully long way to travel without taking very much in. You’re taken out of one world and deposited in another with no available insight to the worlds you’re passing through. The flight had one stop, in Dakar, Senegal, to refuel. We were on the ground for two hours, but not allowed off the plane so all I saw of Africa was from a cabin window. I treasured those moments, though. Treasured seeing the sun rise over that most ancient of continents, and smiled as I saw the red dust, that unending red earth. To see the sunrise, to see the sunset, is a spectacle I’ll never tire of. It’s to know time, it’s to know change, it’s to know life. It connects us all, and there is something comforting about the reminder that we are all under the same skies whether in darkness or in light. I can look to the sun, and look to the moon, and know that all the people I love can see the same. Separation from our friends and family need not be that separate at all.

Ten hours after taking off from Dakar we landed in the Falkland Islands, at RAF Mount Pleasant. As with flying into Senegal, this was my first time seeing the Falklands. And in truth I knew I wouldn’t be seeing much more of this place than I did Africa. There was what I could see from the air, and what I could see from the bus journey to the hotel. But it was wonderful, and for all the world I could have been in the far North West Highlands of Scotland. I half expected to see a road sign to Scourie, or a signpost graffitied with the words ‘Flat Earth’. If the landscape reminded me of Scotland, the houses in Stanley remind me of Scandinavia. They are all brightly coloured, bright red, green, blue roofs, some with brightly coloured walls, too. I can see them from the window of this hotel room. I can also see a few trees and bushes, and a few cars and people that pass occasionally.  A moment ago, a youngish lad cycled past blasting out some music; ‘do you think my tractor’s sexy’ were the only words of the song I managed to catch. There’s a strangeness in observing this outside world, and yet finding myself almost entirely separate from it. Today is the first full day of my quarantine period in the Falklands. If everything goes to plan, I’ll be here in this hotel room until 26^th December, which is when I’ll be getting on a ship for the five day journey across the Drake Passage to Antarctica.