It didn’t start with the Antarctic; it started with the Falkland Islands before all the 25th anniversary of the war was lavished on it. This little bit of Britain, so remote, so isolated and yet still British. And, in no small motivation, so un-holiday like.
The Falklands themselves take an age to get to; generally it’s by cruise ship as my trip is likely to include or by RAF flight although there are now some services from South America as well.
I have to admit, getting on a military flight from Brize Norton and spending two weeks somewhere so few people will ever consider, let alone go, in relative tranquility really appealed. A few books, my Canon SLR with a huge zoom lens, walking boots… that, at the time, really appealed.
But it’s not exactly cheap and I’m not sure whether my notoriously short attention span would cope – though such a personality detox might be a good thing. And so my thoughts turned to an Antarctic trip a friend had mentioned which took in a few days in the Falklands, weather-permitting. If I enjoyed the Falklands, I could always return but at least I could say that I’d been.
So that’s where the story started. Everything I’ve read since, unsurprisingly-thin Lonely Planet included, has only reinforced the Falklands element to the trip. Knowing my luck though either the weather will be too bad to dock or all of a sudden current attention will turn the place into the next trendy destination.
