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  The mat of giant kelp writhing in the swell put Alex in mind of liquorice; in particular, the shiny black liquorice straps he used to buy as a kid. Of course, this kelp, with each of its ‘tentacles’ up to twelve feet in length, was on a rather different scale to the sweets he remembered. But as it slithered around below the algae-covered rocks, it could have been a giant version of that tempting black confectionery, gone wild on the coast of South Georgia and now adding to the distinctly ‘other-worldly’ feel of this magical place.

  That feel had become apparent as soon as the Sea Sprite had arrived at the western end of this huge, elongated island and had begun to make its way along the island’s rugged north coast. It was all forbidding-looking cliffs, capped with thick, low clouds and punctuated by just one massive, sprawling glacier that had made it to the sea. And it was this glacier that underlined not just the other-worldly nature of this place, but also its scale. As Alex studied this enormous feature through his binoculars, he realised that the multiple tiny specks below it were seals and penguins. What he’d thought was a really large slab of frozen water was in fact a gigantic slab of frozen water, and the cliffs were on a similarly massive scale.

  This was even more apparent from the zodiac as it began to make its way around Hercules Bay, a heroic-sized inlet halfway along the north coast, where the Sea Sprite had anchored to allow its passengers their first close encounter with South Georgia’s scenery, South Georgia’s wildlife and South Georgia’s kelp. Alex had boarded his zodiac – with Debbie and with a sizeable helping of anticipation – and was now relishing the experience of finding himself in this remarkable lost world. It wasn’t just the giant kelp and the giant cliffs towering above his tiny craft, but it was also the whole ambience of this place; a secret inlet on a secret island, sheltered by a low grey cloud that obscured the tops of its enfolding cliffs, and filled with so much wildlife that it was difficult to know where to look.

  On the rocks above the kelp were numerous fur seals, some looking grumpy, some looking indifferent, and some – the testosterone-fuelled males – looking both imperious and potentially aggressive. Nearer the end of the bay, below a magnificent waterfall, were more fur seals, a few dozen elephant seals, a clutch of king penguins and, above them, a colony of those delightful macaroni penguins. These guys, thought Alex, must have raised a smile on the faces of the very first humans to visit this island; ‘pioneers’ who weren’t so much interested in observing the wildlife here as harvesting it for their commercial gain. But even they must have been captivated by the appearance – and the habits – of these unavoidably comical inhabitants. With their quiff of yellow feathers and their propensity to embark on climbs up near-vertical rocks, many of which proved unsuccessful, they could not have failed to have captured the attention of the most hardened of hunters and then caused them some serious amusement. There again, there must have been those amongst these early visitors who had observed the unsurpassable skill of these same chaps in the water and, like Alex, had simply marvelled at how something so clumsy and laughable on land could transform itself into such a peerless performer beneath the waves. They might also have stopped to think that, as clumsy on land as these penguins were, through determination and some persistent trial and error, they were – eventually – still able to scale those challenging rocks; rocks that any human would clearly have found impossible. They were quite a thing, and they constituted a fitting end to this first close-up experience of South Georgia before Alex and his fellow shipmates returned to the Sea Sprite – and to a world that had looming above it not low grey clouds but instead an ominous red China.

  There was no new news. On CNN and BBC World News it was just the same loop of no information and no enlightenment whatsoever from a series of professional gurus, and that meant that a similar loop was replayed numerous times over lunch. Was it a deadly pandemic? Was it an earthquake in the Communist Party? Was it some inconceivable natural disaster? Or was it the world’s biggest imminent anticlimax? Would China come back online within hours and announce that normal service would be resumed as soon as possible, and just as soon as the final dregs of that pesky flu thing had been completely flushed away?

  Alex was relieved when lunch was over, and when the Sea Sprite had taken up its new anchorage off King Edward Point. This was just a few miles east of Hercules Bay, and it was the gateway to South Georgia’s most visited site: the abandoned whaling station at Grytviken.

  King Edward Point sits at the entrance to King Edward Cove, and is home to the island’s tiny resident population of humans. For here is a fisheries research facility run by the British Antarctic Survey, shared with a handful of resident government officers responsible for South Georgia and the South Sandwich Islands – and accommodation for both these officers and the BAS researchers. However, it is Grytviken, at the head of King Edward Cove, that is of real interest to any visitor, because as well as hosting the remains of a huge whaling station – and South Georgia’s only functioning church, its only active Post Office and its only museum – it also hosts, just a stone’s throw away, Shackleton’s grave. This has pride of place in a small whalers’ cemetery, surrounded by a low white-painted fence, and blessed with what might be amongst the best views from any cemetery in the world.

  That was Alex’s thought as he stood in the cemetery, glass in hand, ready, with all the other passengers from the ship, to toast Shackleton’s memory with a slug of very welcome whisky. This had been thoughtfully provided by the ship’s operators and was designed to pay suitable homage to one of the most remarkable explorers of all time. For here, buried below this cold South Georgia soil, was a man who might not be remembered for a series of outstanding successes, but instead for his courage, his determination, and his unwillingness to give up. What schoolboy, mused Alex, hadn’t been inspired by Shackleton’s exploits, and in particular, by his eight-hundred-mile voyage in a converted lifeboat that led to his saving the lives of all his colleagues who had been forced to abandon the Endurance when it had become trapped in pack ice? While they remained in a makeshift refuge on Elephant Island, Shackleton and five of his companions had set off in their open boat for the faraway South Georgia and, after fifteen days making their way through the waters of the Southern Ocean, they had arrived on this island’s south coast. Then, taking just two of his crew with him – and with no proper equipment and no maps – Shackleton had managed to scale the mountain chain that makes up the spine of South Georgia, and finally reach a whaling station – and help. His colleagues on Elephant Island were eventually rescued, and his reputation as a fearless explorer soared. No wonder, Alex concluded, he was so revered. And so deserving of this recognition in Scotch.

  Of course, how Shackleton had got on with the local fur seals was not recorded. But Alex thought that if it had been, he would have been less than complimentary about their behaviour. Alex had now made his way, with Debbie and a straggling line of his shipmates, into Grytviken proper, and while the numerous king penguins and elephant seals who had colonised the whaling station were largely indifferent to a troop of wandering humans, the fur seals were a different matter altogether. Essentially, just as promised in that first biosecurity presentation, they were not only inquisitive, but truculent as well. And the young males in particular were just plain dangerous, and had to be discouraged from attacking the Sea Sprite’s passengers by the use of sticks or loud handclaps. This was apparently better than letting them inflict a bite, but it did mean that for as long as Alex and Debbie were in Grytviken, they had to guard themselves against a fur-seal ambush, and this didn’t make for a very relaxing visit.

  Nevertheless, they were still able to soak up the remarkable atmosphere of this place, and marvel at the size of the rusting whale-oil tanks and the equally prodigious size of all the kit required to turn whales into whale oil – and grieve for all the thousands of beautiful creatures who would have been butchered in such a despicable way. Not, as Alex thought, that it would have been seen to
be in the least despicable then. And the hard-working inhabitants of Grytviken were no doubt upstanding honest folk just going about their honest work, and on Sundays turning up at Grytviken’s tiny wooden church to give thanks to God for the bounty he had so generously created. Even if that might be a very human perspective on the purpose – and birthright – of all non-human animals.

  Alex and Debbie risked a threatening phalanx of fur seals to visit the church, and found it charming and in surprisingly good condition. The Post Office, the next destination on their city tour, was similarly charming and very well appointed. And the museum was also very smart, as well as being packed with all sorts of interesting exhibits. There was even a replica of the James Caird, the twenty-foot lifeboat that the ship’s carpenter from the Endurance had prepared for Shackleton’s eight-hundred-mile mission to bring help to his stranded crew. This nautical chippy had apparently raised its sides, strengthened its keel, given it a makeshift half-deck of wood and canvas and had sealed the whole lot with oil paint and seal blood. But it was still basically a small lifeboat, and Alex could not imagine how anyone would set to sea in such a small vessel in such demanding waters, and without any modern navigational aids to help him find so small a land mass so far to the north – and so easy to miss entirely. Maybe he should go back to that cemetery and toast Shackleton again. Or maybe he should report to a waiting zodiac and return to the Sea Sprite, while carefully avoiding a further gang of fur seals who had gathered to ensure that he and his wife were menaced to the very end of their visit. Even if they would escape without a single bite…

  Back on board, it was the usual welcome with a warm flannel and a glass of something too hot to drink, and then a brisk walk to their cabin to dispose of most of their layers of clothes. And then it was on with the telly. Had CNN or BBC World any new light to shed on that oriental mystery that up to now had been kept at bay by South Georgia’s charms? Well, no, neither of them had, other than an ‘unconfirmed report’ that something out of the ordinary might be going on where China bumped into Myanmar. And it might even involve shots being fired. Maybe last night’s third-hand rumour had been more than just a rumour.

  Alex was just about to make this point to Debbie when the ship’s tannoy found its voice. It was the expedition leader’s number two, Sarah, a youngish women with an admirable body but a less-than-admirable demeanour, announcing that at five o’clock there would be a meeting in the main lounge to address the situation in China. It wasn’t, of course, mandatory. But it didn’t need to be. Alex could not believe that it wouldn’t attract a bumper audience, or that anyone would turn up late.

  He was right. When he and Debbie entered the old people’s lounge, there was hardly a seat that wasn’t already occupied, and they had to position themselves at the back of the room on a couple of chairs that were situated directly under a picture of the Endurance. Alex just hoped that what they were about to hear might be rather more uplifting than the message Shackleton must have had to deliver to the crew of his ill-fated vessel. And that it certainly wouldn’t involve the use of any lifeboats, even if they’d been upgraded by the use of copious amounts of seal blood. He would soon find out. Jane had just adopted her standard legs-planted-firmly-apart stance at the front of the lounge and was about to speak. When she did it was in a tone somewhere between earnest and ill at ease.

  ‘Thank you all for coming at such short notice,’ she began. ‘And I won’t waste any more of your time than I have to by my coming straight to the point. And the point is China, and whether your captain knows anything more about what is going on in that country than you might have seen for yourselves on the news. Well, I can tell you straightaway that he does not. None of us do. All we know – like you – is that China has unplugged itself from the rest of the world and the reason it has done this is a complete mystery. It might be something to do with the flu there. And personally, I think it has to be. But nobody can be sure, and there seems to be little point in indulging in speculation.

  ‘Instead, I think we should focus on our situation and consider whether the events in China – whatever they are – should have any impact on our cruise. That is to say, any impact on the continuation of our cruise. Should we now curtail it and head back to Ushuaia or should we just sit off South Georgia for a while until things become clearer? Or should we simply carry on – ignore faraway events and just keep to our original itinerary? Now, I know that there are already some very different opinions on this. After all, it’s difficult to overestimate the seriousness of a country the size of China isolating itself from the rest of the world. And some amongst you are very worried about what this might mean, and think that the idea of our just carrying on as if nothing has happened is reckless to say the least. You think we’d be simply burying our heads in the sand. Conversely, there are quite a number amongst you who think that abandoning the cruise now would be entirely pointless. What, you ask, would it achieve, and how could it place us in a better position than we’re in at the moment: remote from the seat of whatever the problem might be, and still with an ability to monitor developments on the other side of the world?’

  At this stage of the address, Alex could see that a handful of people in the lounge were getting a little restless. They had questions to ask and they wanted to ask them now. However, Jane had other ideas, and she quickly pressed on.

  ‘Well, I did say that our captain knows as little about what is going on within China’s borders as we all do. He’s been unable to discover anything about the reason for China’s shutdown. However, he’s been far from idle, and he’s been in close contact with Stanley – and I mean the authorities there. And he’s even paid a visit to the government guys at King Edward Point – while we were toasting Shackleton – to see whether they’ve got any more information. And the purpose of his efforts – obviously – was to establish whether we should turn back, stay put or carry on.

  ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, I am happy to report that the firm – official – advice from the authorities in the Falklands, based on the advice they have received from London – and fully supported by the guys at King Edward Point – is that we should carry on. They believe that there is no danger in our adopting this option, and on the contrary, they think it would be counterproductive for us to return to Ushuaia. That would only invite any number of problems and it would also be completely futile. As in “what would it achieve?”.’

  ‘Well, we’d be back in civilisation, to start with,’ interjected someone at the front of the room.

  Jane glared at him, but she responded in a calm and placatory tone.

  ‘I know what you mean, sir. But I really don’t see how that would be an improvement on our current situation; one where, if we need to, we can be back in “civilisation” in no more than three days’ time. And as I’ve said, we certainly do not need to do that yet. All the advice is to… well, to keep calm and carry on. And that’s exactly what the captain has decided to do. And I truly hope that when you’ve given it some more thought, you’ll all give that decision your full support. After all, our captain’s primary concern is our well-being, and all he is doing is what he thinks is best for us in all sorts of ways. We will remain entirely safe and we will even have the bonus of seeing more of South Georgia and then, all being well, the Antarctic Peninsula.’

  The original interrupter had been gently but successfully faced down, but another now found his voice.

  ‘How can he know it’s OK to go all the way to the Antarctic Peninsula? Anything might happen.’

  Jane smiled, and again answered calmly.

  ‘Sir, I did say, “all being well”. Obviously, we will be monitoring what’s going on all the time, and if we get different advice tomorrow – or even in the next few hours – we will act on that advice and do whatever is necessary. We certainly won’t be sailing off to Antarctica before we know that it’s safe to do so. I can only repeat; the captain has our well-being as his absolute priority.’<
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  Alex was aware that there were a couple of mumbles in Jane’s audience at this point, but nobody spoke up, and nobody even asked a question when Jane invited these from the floor. She’d done her job well, and was now able to wrap up her unscheduled talk with a promise that everybody would be kept well informed of any developments and that meanwhile she would be very grateful if the assembled passengers remembered that the maintenance of biosecurity measures was still crucially important. And this meant that they should ensure that they’d inspected their boots and all their outerwear before they embarked on tomorrow’s planned activities. It was her way, thought Alex, of injecting a little normality into a potentially febrile situation. Or maybe she always used any opportunity that presented itself to ram home her favourite biosecurity message. Indeed, having given it just a little more thought, he soon decided it was the latter…

  Over dinner, the intensity of the biosecurity arrangements featured as an early topic for discussion. This was partly due to the fact that the normal gang of five had made a pact at the beginning of the meal that they would talk about anything other than China. This worked very well, and in due course it led to a fascinating debate on the intellectual capacity of certain politicians and how, despite having had a virtual intellectual by-pass, some of them were able to achieve high office if not the respect of their peers or of mere mortal plebs. And without exception, all of them were blind to their blatant inadequacies. This then somehow led on to an exchange about gender politics – and the dangers of allowing any such exchange into the public arena – before Derek decided to vent his thoughts on the subject of ‘cultural appropriation’.

  Unsurprisingly, he had no time for it and thought it worse than ridiculous. In his mind, the very idea of suggesting that by wearing a Mexican hat one could in some way be disrespecting Mexican culture was no less than preposterous. And what’s more, he argued, it ignored the rather old-fashioned epithet of ‘Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.’ Why would anyone put a Mexican hat on his or her head if he or she didn’t like Mexican hats? He did go on a bit, and he did dwell a little too long on the subject of cultural imposition, which he considered to be a rather more serious issue in England than anything to do with hats. But he concluded swiftly and amusingly by suggesting that the English might successfully undermine the whole concept of cultural appropriation by pointing out that the English language, which is central to all aspects of their culture, has been appropriated by hundreds of millions of people around the world. And would they now kindly desist from this discourteous behaviour. Would they just clear off and find their own bloody language and leave ours alone…