Winter of Discontent!

There must be easier ways to get a week off work! The last 5 weeks can only be described as unpleasantly interesting for both me and Caz. Between us, we have garnered a much more intimate relationship with the Falkland Islands medical service. Although this new friend has welcomed us with open arms and treated us extremely well, we will be trying our hardest to avoid eye contact if we see her passing in the street in future. I have to try and think of a good excuse for the next dinner party invite…

It's amazing that something so small and innocuous (well at least on the surface) could potentially wreak so much havoc. A change in shape, colour and feel of one of the numerous moles that pebble-dash my skin has resulted in 2 visits to the surgeon, a week off work and at least 4 weeks off running – although it could have been so much worse. 

So small... the contrasting colour and irregular shape was an issue.

Caz has a very 'say what she thinks/get on with it/jump into things head first' personality, which, on many occasions, has caused mild infuriation with my very much thoughtful and considered approach to life. However, on this occasion, I thank god Caz did pick up the phone, book my appointment and order me to go to the doctor. Without such metaphorical ignition of a rocket, I would have probably still been thinking about going months later. Such procrastination in this case could have had extremely serious consequences…  

2 weeks of rest meant getting back to my geeky younger days. 

The first excision.

Both doctor and surgeon took one look at the skin-borne offender and within 2 weeks of my first appointment, I found myself on the surgeon's table, nervously trying to banish images of glinting scalpels and long, dripping syringes from my overactive mind. The surgeon had decided to take a chunk of skin about the size of an eye-ball from my leg, under local anesthetic. The initial shock of having to have this procedure had, at least partially subsided (I had originally deluded myself into thinking that it would be a very minor nick with 1 or 2 stitches at most, followed by a couple of days of recovery and then carry on as normal) and it was just a case of getting it done and resting for 2 weeks, before the deep stitches were removed.

Having this removed under local was the oddest sensation. When the anesthetic did start to work properly, there was no pain. However, I could still feel everything he was doing. I couldn’t see anything, but knew exactly when and where he was cutting and then stitching. Heaven knows what having something like a caesarian is like. Once out, the mole was sent off to the UK for the biopsy. This would take about 4 weeks. I just had to wait now and take it easy for a couple of weeks. Easier said than done, but I survived! 

You know it's serious when you get interrupted in a lesson by the secretary, with a message to ring the surgeon as soon as possible. The results of the biopsy were here and he wanted to see me at lunchtime; and no he wouldn't discuss them on the phone. With the ongoing pressure of work, the running and Caz's tooth issue (see below); I had put this whole sorry business to the back of my mind. It had now been unceremoniously dragged to the front.

The results of the biopsy had come back as a malignant melanoma – I won't bore you with the details. These results then had to be sent onto a specialist for advice on the next steps, but it was looking like I would need further invasive treatment. The big factor in my favour was the earliness we had acted on this. I can't remember when I had first noticed the change in the mole's appearance, but it was certainly under 6 months. The surgeon was also confident that he had removed it all – he had opted for a wider than usual excision. However, they were pretty certain that I would need more removed as a precaution. It was just a question of how much more. If not too much, then he was able to perform the excision and close with sutures. If more than this, then I was looking at a flight back to the UK and then skin grafting. Gulp!

As it turns out, I was fortunate. The specialist had recommended the lesser excision so I was booked in for surgery 2 days later. This time I had to go under general. The area to be removed was significant and closing it would be much more challenging. 

More taken out the second time around. Now to just think of an impressive story to tell the grandchildren about the scar...

It was going to be another first for me. I had never been under general, so was suffering the usual irrational anxieties: will I wake up again…? Will I wake up too early in the middle of it all…? As expected, these fears were never realized, although the procedure did take a good hour, as he took more than he first intended and closing was tricky. I was, however, home by lunchtime, with an order to get my feet up and rest! I was now facing the agony and frustration of at least another 2 weeks rest, but fingers crossed, this should be the end of it.

In the middle of all this, Caz had her own medical (or rather dental) emergency. Prior to coming out here she had a back molar heavily filled. This has caused her endless problems ever since, and the little blighter decided to celebrate my birthday by throwing a party of its own in the form of a huge abscess. In fact it was quite amazing how much swelling appeared overnight. One emergency trip to the dentist later and Caz had a clutch of pills and potions to get rid of the infection before the illegal little raver could be evicted. Unfortunately, this was a stubborn devil and the infection got worse. In fact, according to the dentist, it was getting quite serious. The infection was now making its way up towards the eye and down under her chin. Caz was thoroughly miserable at this point and even my jokes about the elephant man failed to cheer her up – rather inexplicably! In an effort to prevent any further spread, and a possibility of blood (and brain apparently!!!) infection, the dentist then decided to cut and drain the inside of her cheek. Just the thought of this is making me squeamish, so I won't go on. Needless to say, the whole procedure was extremely painful, but had the desired effect of allowing the battery of antibiotics Caz was taking to work their magic. A week later and the tooth was finally given its marching orders and the scene of the crime has finally been cleared. 

To end this tale of misery and woe, I would like to extend my gratitude and thanks to the staff of the King Edward VII Memorial Hospital in Stanley. The service has been excellent and extremely quick for both Caz and myself. We're both hoping for a less dramatic October, at least on the health front.  

One year on...

I feel like I have blinked for fractionally too long and suddenly it's almost a year that we have been down here in the Falklands. It has certainly been an experience so far, on so many fronts, including work and pleasure. Admittedly, I have been a little lazy over the last few months, in terms of writing my blog. This is due to a combination of being so busy at work and there being not a great deal to tell you about. It's the middle of deep, dark winter here. The days are short, the wind, although not so prevalent as in the summer months, is bitterly cold; and we have had numerous flurries of snow and ice. It's been a case of getting my head down and trying to reach the end of a hard-worked year at school.

Well, that end has, at long last, been successfully reached. It did take a little longer than I am used to, with a late finish, well into August for us down here. I have to say, that I have been drooling with jealousy at the Facebook postings of all my former work colleagues, both in the UK and the Middle East, as they enjoy a much earlier and warmer end to their school year. But hey ho… better late than never. It could be warmer though.

So, with little else in the way of interesting news, I thought it a good idea to give you all a review of both the good and less-than-good aspects of island life in the sub-Polar region.

THE GOOD

The far end of Surf Bay. The destination of many a windswept stroll.

The beauty: I only have to look out the window (when not in the middle of a heavy rain or snow shower) to remind myself of the number 1 on my list of reasons to be here. On a clear day, the beauty of the islands never ceases to take my breath away. The patchwork of colours, the rugged wildness, the rolling landscape and the clarity of the air all combine to make the islands a real diamond, which may have jagged edges, but sparkles brightly. 

Looking out from our front door on a gloriously sunny day.

The wildlife: In a close second comes the amazing flora and fauna that the islands contain. We have yet to experience this at its full potential and will continue to notch up new species of birds and mammals over the coming summer; however, what we have seen so far has been a visual banquet, from the characterful dinner-suited penguins to the beauty and cheekiness of the caracara to the wallowing blubbery masses of the many seals. 

The skies around the Falklands are littered with these dark, foreboding beauties - Turkey vulture.

The running: The running has been excellent, both on and off-road. I am running between 80 and 100 miles a week on average, and although in the recent winter months, much of it has been in the dark with a head torch, fighting challenging weather conditions, living here has only strengthened my growing obsession with this most basic of exercise. If I tire of pounding the road, I have a great trail right on my doorstep, and on a clear day I can run to some breathtaking vistas, in order to clear my mind. I am looking to get into the ultra-running scene much more over the coming year. A local running partner and I plan to complete a 66 mile charity run to Mount Pleasant Airport and back next October, and I am considering something much longer, when we are back in the UK for a visit next January (more details to come on that!).

The start to a very cold half marathon back in February - which was still meant to be summer!

The traffic: Or should I say the lack of it. One of the most frustrating aspects of living in the Middle East was the volume of traffic we had to battle against on a daily basis to get absolutely anywhere. With large volumes of traffic come large numbers of traffic lights, which results in many hours of sitting in the car at a standstill, while the air conditioning works on overtime to try and counter the stifling heat trying to peel the paint off the car bonnets. The Falklands couldn't be more different. There are no traffic lights for a start. The busiest driving conditions of the day is the lunchtime rush, which I usually miss anyway as I stay at school. Even if you do get 'stuck' in this, the most you will get is a line of 4 cars trying to turn onto the Stanley By-pass. The air conditioning is still on, but to try and heat the car up (at least in the winter months). As in the Middle East, everyone drives large 4 x 4 cars, but instead of sand, its mud and (out in Camp) a lack of proper roads to drive on. That’s not to say the driving is any safer here; however, while the dangers of Middle Eastern roads are the idiots you share them with, the problem here are the state of the roads, ice and wind. Road traffic accidents are the Falklands Fire Service's number 1 call-out!

This section of road is actually in good shape.

The Whalebone Arch at the cathedral 

- the nearest the Falklands has to the 

Golden Arches.

No Golden Arches: A mark of any great surviving wilderness of the world, untouched by the ruin of 'civilisation,' must be the lack of one of the most recognisable symbols of the western world's passage into a sedentary, lazy and overweight species - the MacDonald's M! Of great irk to many of the younger generation of the islands (including my children), who have been fooled into thinking that the food produced by such companies as MacDonalds, Burger King, Kentucky and the countless others, is nutritionally worth more than something to feed the seagulls to, there is a reassuring lack of such food outlets on the islands. That is not to say you cannot get burgers. However, the burgers here are locally produced, made from grass-fed cattle, are thick and succulent and cost half the price of the UK equivalent. It will be an extremely sad day if those Golden Arches do make their way to this part of the world, but nothing surprises me anymore, and the islands are on the brink of development of their oil industry, so you never know.

The meat: Staying on the subject of food then, we come to the quality and cost of meat products available on the islands. Beef and lamb is excellent. It's all grass fed, so has a higher percentage of omega 3's, in comparison to cheaper UK grain fed animals, is slaughtered and butchered locally and is very cheap. Yum yum!!

Tasty meaty morsels...

Lots of new experiences for the latest retained fire fighter
on the islands...

The new experiences: There have been quite a few… just being in and experiencing a different place in the world for one thing. Seeing new plants and animals, meeting new people and experiencing their culture, as well as seeing the beauty of the islands are all good reasons to be here. We have produced our own eggs with chickens and ducks, eaten freshly butchered mutton on the barbeque, been bogged in our 4 x 4 and even watching Stanley's population triple in one day as it is descended upon by the contents of one of the leviathan-like cruise ships, which silently appear as the sun rises in the west. Life is often described as a tapestry - its experiences like these, from all over the world, that form the patchwork scraps that make this tapestry rich, colourful and varied.

Sheep shearing is a very important part of life here in the Falklands.

I am not a spiritual person. I will freely admit to being an atheist and this 'belief' is unlikely to ever change. The thought that there is no god or any other ultimate being, or that a heaven (or hell) does not await me, does not scare me in the slightest. Instead I like to step back to enjoy and wonder at the beauty of the world around me. This beauty for me is at its most splendorous during sunrise at the dawn of the day. Watching the sun come up, when the day is at its most fresh is possibly the time when I feel most at ease with myself and the world around me, and if there was ever a time I was going to consider myself to be spiritual, then this time would be it. I have experienced beautiful sunrises in many parts of the world, including India, the Middle East and Europe. The ones I try and catch here in the Falklands when out running are truly amazing, it has to be said. Like the birth of a new universe may be a slightly dramatic description, but that’s often what comes to mind when I see such a large glowing ball waking the sky, on a clear day. Whatever the coming day promises to hold, good or bad, nothing can destroy that beautiful and blissful moment.

THE BAD (well, not-so-good)

The shopping (non-foodstuff): To be fair, this is something that bothers me less and I could even stretch to putting this in the list above. However, it is generally more difficult to get things here and they are more expensive. The situation has improved immensely by all accounts, with a lot more companies now air mailing to the islands now. You just need to be more organised, more patient and less choosy. Obviously, with the number of miles I am running every week, I will go through trainers pretty quickly. The running shoes available on the island are very expensive and quite frankly not very good, so I rely on air mail. This has served me well so far. Again, as long as I am organised and plan ahead, I have no problems in getting the right ones for me. I am currently rotating about 4 pairs and have another pair on order. I generally do not like shopping anyway, so the lack of shops here does not bother me in the slightest. The initial wonder of the Qatari mega-mauls soon wore off, when we lived there, and I would regularly spurn the opportunity to visit them, even if it did let loose a seasoned shopper in the form of the wife, with the credit card. I do have to say however, that Caz has done remarkably well on the shopping front in general - only showing frustration with the lack of choice for children's clothes and shoes.

The Stanley mega-maul that is West Store.

Work: While I have done well at work this year, with great SATs results, being appointed to a TLR position and having some great feedback, it has been a real slog. My work-life balance has definitely not been very balanced at all. Part of the problem is my attitude to work in general (not wanting to do a half job) and the fact that we have not had things like PPA or regular management release time this year. Weekends have turned into an extension of the working week, just without the children in the class and the general pace of having to do things, as well as the amount of things I have had to fit in, has been ridiculously high. I look back on the year, and although it can be regarded as being very successful, I cannot say I have enjoyed it much. I hope next year will improve, although with an OFSTED inspection scheduled for the November of term 1, the prospects of this happening in the short term do not look good. I like to think of myself as a reflective practitioner, assessing the impact of what I do in terms of effectiveness for learning and progress, as well as enjoyment for the children. Unfortunately this reflection all too often also extends to whether I am doing the right thing in terms of my career, but that’s a discussion for another day…

Year 6 on school camp.

The potential for an outdoor life: One of the things I was looking forward to before moving here was to enjoy a much more outdoor life in clearer, less polluted air. To a certain extent this has been fulfilled, but not quite to the extent of my expectations. The main problem has been the weather. A combination of the prevailing windy conditions, the cold and the wet (especially so in winter, but the summer was not great either) has meant a lot more time spent indoors and a greater use of the car than I was ever expecting. Don't get me wrong. We have been able to go for walks and both Olivia and Evie have bikes now, but the cold weather does prevent us venturing out in much the same way as the heat did in the Middle East. Compounding the frustration is the lack of facilities to keep the children occupied in Stanley – the only cinema on the island is an hour's drive away at Mounts Pleasant Airbase and the only swimming pool on the islands has just reopened after over a year in renovation. When the weather does play ball and the sun comes out, the islands are a magical and beautiful place, the air is pure and there is so much open space, but there is a reason the military send their troops here for training, and it's not for spotting penguins.

Walking at Elephant Beach on a very windy and wet summer's day.

THE UGLY

The weather:  I do not mind admitting that we have all really missed the warmer climate we had become accustomed to. If you don't like wind, this is definitely not the place to come. It has to be one of the windiest places on earth, especially in the summer. Being so close to the Antarctic, the average temperature is low (the heady heights of 20°C is a rarity, even in summer), although not as low as you would expect – it’s the wind chill that is the killer! The winter is also very wet. As the soil is so peaty here, water takes a long time to drain away, so much of the islands have turned into a swamp that Shrek would enjoy living in; the frequent frost and snow only serve to compound this problem, as it thaws. There are sunny days and when these are coupled with a rare day of little wind, the beauty of the Falklands unveils herself like the ugly duckling transforming into a swan. More of these days would be nice though.

Bipolar would be a good way to describe the personality of the weather in this part of the world – just the other day, it started calm, clear and quiet; however, by the end of the day the storm force winds were hurling golf balls against the side of the house. By the next morning, all was clam again. These squalls blow through very quickly and often, and can happen all year round. Such weather makes it very dangerous for sailors in this part of the world and Cape Horn, only a few hundred miles away, has made itself infamous for such a reason. It is also the reason for the many ship wrecks that litter the vicinity of Stanley and the rest of the Falklands. Prior to the building of the Panama Canal, ships were forced to play the lottery of rounding Cape Horn. The first place available for storm-damaged ships to stop off and repair was the Falkland Islands. What captains often found on arrival was that they could not afford the repair costs. It was cheaper to sell off their cargo, abandon their ships and hitch a lift home on another, more seaworthy ship. The islanders did very well off such enterprise!

Half-way through an 18 hour flight to the Falklands (Ascension Island)

The distance from home: There is no getting around the fact that we are a long way from home. Just the time it takes to travel here, from Cornwall, alone is bad enough. However, if you marry this with the fact that there are only 2 MOD flights and 1 other commercial flight out of the islands in a week (all of which are at the mercy of the weather conditions), means getting back to the UK is not easy – especially at short notice. This really hit home at the turn of the New Year, when dear Julian tragically passed away from an 18 month battle with cancer. It has also been a real deciding factor of when we will make it back to see family and with increasing frustration, has been a huge restriction on the running events and races I would like to do. The nearest place I could race would be South America; however, as the only flights to and from the islands are a Saturday, it would mean I would have to take a 2 week holiday (as most races happen on a weekend). This means I am restricted to the longer school holidays, at which time there are not many races! Annoying!

The price of fruit and vegetables:  Basically the cost of both here is incredibly high. Bunches of bananas for nearly £5 each, a punnet of cherry tomatoes for over £4, blueberries for £6-7 a punnet, lettuces for over £2… the list can go on, but you get the idea. Making the price of fruit and vegetables an even more bitter pill to swallow is the poor quality. We heavily rely as a family on frozen vegetables and have learned to adapt our shopping needs accordingly, but the great quality and value of meat products here is very much negatively balanced out by the poor availability and cost of fresh fruit and vegetables. This is certainly not a place for vegetarians, although I do know a few. The problem lies in the fact that most of the food (apart from meat) is imported by air freight. By the time the restaurants and cruise ships have had their pick of the best, the general population on the islands are left with the expensive and poorer quality rest. Some fruit and vegetables are grown on the islands; however, due to the climate and poor soil conditions this is very limited and very seasonal. My partial solution: put the tax on alcohol much higher and use the money gained to subsidise healthier food, including fruit and vegetables. I doubt this would go down well with a lot of people here!

So that’s a snapshot of the good and not-so-good points of living here. I will have obviously missed a few things, so apologise for that. It's certainly been a different life experience for us so far and we are looking forward to continuing this over the next year. 

Mud, sweat and gears...

The waters of another term at work had well and truly passed under the bridge, and the chance to take stock and recuperate in a 2 week break for the Easter holidays. Caz decided that we needed some time away from the bright lights of Stanley, so booked us all 2 nights in the lodge at Elephant Beach Farm. I was under strict orders not to bring any work, so I took my trail shoes and mountain bike instead. Ben, at the farm, had already told us it was too wet to drive to the coast, but this would not stop me getting there via foot and spoke!  

Stunning views of the rolling landscape while out on the metal steed. 

A full car (bike, food, children), a good weather forecast and the promise of a couple of relaxing days outside of internet and mobile contact - we set of in good spirits on Thursday morning. With the onset of Winter, the climate has turned rather wetter (and colder), which has in turn transformed the archipelago into what can only be described as a quagmire. It's quite simply muddy, everywhere, and by the time we had reached our destination, after a relatively uneventful drive, the car was for want of a better term, lagged!

Eager to stretch the legs, I left the girls playing around the cabin, fixed the wheels back onto the Trek, and after a brief word with Ben about my route, set off in search of the coast. The actual track was easy to find and follow. Not so easy was the pedaling. As Ben had promised it was extremely wet - in fact at times I was forced to pedal through sections of water that almost up to my ankles, which put my neoprene overshoes under serious examination. Thankfully, they passed with good results. The countryside is best described as rolling, with nothing too extreme in terms of gradients, however, a combination of mud and wind, made much of riding very heavy going. In fact I was wary of the depth of some of the wetter puddles I was forcing my way through at times, especially at the bottom of the hills, where I admit I did come off at one point. At least it was a relatively soft landing. I am not the most technically gifted of riders, and descending quickly has never been a favourite aspect of cycling for me. Small rivers suddenly appearing at the bottom of a fast, wet and muddy descents were, shall we say, raising the heart-rate a little - as were the efforts to claw my way back up the corresponding ascents on the other side!

The path ahead, snaking its muddy way through the hills.

 

Bucket and sponge beckoned. 

Unfortunately, while I did eventually make it to the coast, I missed a turn-off in the path, which would have taken me to the sandy beach. Unknowingly, it turns out I was only about 5 minutes away. Ultimately though, I was rewarded with some beautifully rugged landscape, a good work-out and some great bird-life: especially loads of Southern Giant Petrols (a favourite of mine) and a very close encounter with a Striated Caracara - sorry the camera was in my ruck sack at this point. With time pressing (I didn't relish the thought of being lost somewhere with the sunlight disappearing), I decided to head back to the lodge.

Friday morning greeted me with the dull thud of a headache. A combination of dehydration from yesterday's biking and a couple of glasses of cheap mead we had brought with us (and it definitely was only a couple!) had resulted in a mild hangover. Undaunted, I laced up the trail shoes and struck out early in search of the sandy beach and its penguins. I had consulted Ben on my error in navigation the day before, so was confident I would get lucky today. This time, however, I opted to go by foot.

Goal in sight - the coast!

It turned out to be a lovely run. I followed the trail I had cycled previously, my tread marks still visible in the mud. At times, I lost a foot nearly up to the knee in the mud, and really took it easy in the wettest parts - who knows what I would be stepping on at the bottom of those rather deep sections of water: dead sheep, birds, missing trail runners...? Despite the wet feet, my pace was good and I made excellent time in the conditions, and this time I made sure I took the correct turn-off, as the sea came into view.

As I rounded the headland, I could see a number of black and white forms standing out among the grass. Yes, it was the Gentoo penguins I had been trying to find. As I got closer, the familiar formal penguin dinner outfits became more visible, as did their smell! It was really difficult to get very close to photograph them however. Do you blame them? The appearance of a giant wet, muddy and sweaty runner trying to sneak through the grass towards them would probably spook even the friendliest of creatures... Like dominoes, once one spotted me and decided I was getting too close, the rest followed suit, with a surprisingly quick, yet awkward waddle over the heath.

A spot of penguin herding.

Just managed to sneak up for a closer shot...

...before they're off again.

Not wishing to scar these wonderful birds with images of my lycra-clad body more than was necessary, I soon headed down to the beach. This beautiful wind-swept beach reminded me of many a beach in Cornwall, during the Winter (penguins aside). Unfortunately, it was the wrong time of year for sea lions, but there were more Gentoos, enjoying the day on the white sands. These particular ones were even more nervous of my approach so I stayed at a safe distance for them to give them space.

Feathers and flippers enjoying  day at the beach.

Wintry but beautiful.

From the other end.

After exploring the other end of the beach a little, I was wary that my water was running low and that hunger was setting in. It was time to get back to the lodge. I suppose I had also better spend some time with the rest of the family as well.

Marathon Man!

Studying the weather forecast so intently in the week leading to the marathon was probably the wrong thing to do. All week I had been repeating the mantra that the forecast was wrong and it had plenty of time to change. By Friday, however, time was rapidly running out, and rather disconcertingly, the weather was now forecast to be worse! Oh well. This was something completely out of my control and something all the runners would have to contend with. It wasn't as if I hadn't run in strong wind before either – strong wind is one of the facts of everyday life in these islands.  Rather disappointingly however, was the knowledge that running a personal best in a force 8 gale was going to be much harder, if not impossible. 

Not sure about this number.

Race day dawned rather more peacefully than I was expecting. Looking out of the front window all appeared quiet. This quickly proved to be a false dawn however, as before long the wind suddenly picked up, as did the hail showers, which started to hit the back of the house with worrying ferocity. The wind was predicted to blow in a south westerly direction and the direction that the road signs in front of our house almost seemed to be bending in its wrath, suggested the forecast was right. Anything from the south here also means cold – next stop in that direction is Antarctica – and the lumps of ice now intermittently peppering our metal roof suggested it would be cool today.

Race HQ was the Standard Charter Bank (race sponsors) and the town hall next door. This was also the start and finish of the race.  The familiar buzz of excitement and nerves filled the air, as did the familiar smell radiating from the small and overused toilets before any such race. The Falklands Islands TV camera was ready and waiting at the start, and it quickly hunted me down for the inevitable pre-race interview. It seems that my recent half marathon victory had placed me well and truly in the position of favourite. Whether this would play out over the day, we would see, as there looked to be quite a few well-trained runners from the military and South America – the latter were also looking rather tanned! 

A very welcome feeling...

Radio interview.

The first part of the marathon is always a test of restraint. The legs are fresh and feeling good and the pace always seems slow. However, if you succumb to temptation and push hard, the legs will inevitably pay dearly in the latter stages of the race. A number of runners pushed on in front at the sound of the starting gun, so I decided to keep them close but not to take the lead. The first few miles were into the wind, but we were in the more sheltered parts of town, so I knew things would get a lot harder. After 2 miles, I tucked myself behind a runner from the RAF. His pace seemed comfortable and he made a good wind break at that point. We were leading the race now and we would stay together for the next 18 miles.

The marathon course would lead our band of intrepid (or should that be foolish) runners on a small loop around the west side of Stanley, back through the centre, past the start and finish again and then head east along the front. We would then pass my own house, just before hitting the true test of this race – the Stanley By-pass. We would run the entire length of this twice, before turning back into the more sheltered climes of Stanley again. As the RAF runner and I turned round the corner into the by-pass, the wind hit us with an invisible hammer blow. This was not going to be easy. The fact that the volunteers manning the water stations were finding it difficult to stand up was a worrying sign in itself.

I had trained on this road many times on the lead up to the race, however, one of the benefits of training is that you can be flexible and avoid the worst of the weather if needs be. I would never have chosen to train in the kind of fury we were experiencing today. In an attempt to make things slightly easier on ourselves, Ian (RAF runner) and I decided to take turns in front, while the other grabbed some sort of shelter behind. Even this was difficult at times as the gusts were almost knocking us off the road. Approaching the end of the By-pass at Sapper Hill, the road's gradient sharply kicked up, and with a monstrous headwind almost pushing us backwards, everything seemed very slow. It was here that I suddenly found myself alone at the head of the race. The tailing shadow, that had been with me had suddenly gone, as had the familiar rustle of a race number violently flapping in the wind. On turning out of the wind to run back down the by-pass I could see that I had made at least a minute on him. We were now half-way, and despite the titanic effort made in getting here so far, I was feeling fairly good still. I decided I would try and put the hammer down and finish the race off.

Sssweeeet...

Or so I thought. Running on your own, with no watch, no GPS, meant I never really knew what my pace was. What I thought had now been a good pace (enough to completely demoralize and squash any challenge from 2^nd place), obviously wasn't quite so, as 2 miles later Ian was back with me. Damn. The race was well and truly still on. We both knew it was a race now as well. Gone was the relaxed conversation (well as relaxed as you get when trying to run a quick marathon), certainly gone was any notion of helping each other in the wind. With just over 10 miles to go, we had plenty of time to get friendly after the race.

The last turn into the wind, at the opposite end of the by-pass at Stanley airport, turned out to be the last time (at least during the race) I saw my determined challenger. It also ushered in, by far, the hardest 3 miles of the race. Just 6 miles from the finish now, so close, yet with the wind now battering me with unrelenting fury, it felt like a lifetime away. Having no idea how far I was in front, I just had to keep pushing on, despite, by now, feeling sick with the effort. Moreover, not only was I facing this very physical battle with the elements and the pain in my legs, a fresh battle front had now opened – the mental war. The temptation to slow my pace, even walk, was huge, and it was all I could do to resist. Welcome to the hurt locker…

What felt like a lifetime, the finish line drew ever closer. Rather like a cruel twist to the end of a story, the final 2 miles of the route took us back past the finish line onto another loop of the west end of town. Caz had made it back in time to cheer me through and reassure me that I was well in the lead.

Crossing the finish in races is always a good feeling. All that preparation has paid off and the sense of achievement is great. It was especially good being in first place and knowing that I had just run an insanely tough race. It wasn't until this point that I had any idea of my time and I almost couldn’t believe I had run a 2.54 marathon in those conditions. In fact, I was the only runner under 3 hours. With little time to gain any sort of composition, the local press were descending like ravenous vultures, eager to pick the bones of the helpless and exhausted finishers. Local celebrity status beckoned it seemed, with radio, TV and then newspaper interviews following in quick succession. All I really wanted at this point was a warming cup of sugary tea.

At this point I feel that I must extend my gratitude to all the marshals and volunteers at the water stations. These brave souls had to spend a number of hours more than I did out in some pretty extreme conditions, which included some vicious hail showers. Also to the huge amount of support I had en route. Foremost amongst these were Caz and the girls, all of whom are welcome sights to a weary runner at the end of a long, hard race. 

Spoils of war!

A Trip to Kidney

As the southern hemisphere summer wanes, the inky cloak of darkness shrouds the evening ever earlier and the kiss of its air feels increasingly frostier on my cheeks, we still had time to savour some of the beauty of nature that surrounds us here. We were kindly invited to join some friends on a trip to the nearby Kidney Island – a small and uninhabited island about an hour's boat ride from Stanley (uninhabited, unless you count seals, penguins and the plethora of other seabird life). Standing on the quay, waiting for the launch, which would serve to ferry us to this late summer wonderland, the weather had turned out unusually quiet and still. I was secretly relieved, as I had worried how the girls (all 3!) would fare on south Atlantic swell – albeit within the relatively sheltered waterways we would remain within.

Sick bags at the ready!

If the boat journey out was going to be any kind of indication of what was in store for us, then it promised to be a bonanza of a wildlife watching evening. Watching Stanley disappear into the distance behind us, we were treated to squadrons of Magellanic Penguins breaking the surface while out for an evening fish, an escort from a small pod of Commerson dolphins and the effortless glide of the numerous and mighty Southern Petrol. The ocean seemed to be alive.

Farewell Stanley...

On reaching Kidney, we were immediately reminded that this was a real island of nature. No user-friendly quay or jetty to welcome any visitors here - a motor dingy ride and landing on an empty and pebbly beach left us facing a challenging walk through head-high tussock grass. And when I say head-high, that was head-high for the adults of the landing party. This must have felt like a jungle at times for Evie, with the grasses towering well above her eye-line. In fear of losing her, I was at times, literally forced to just pull her through this tussock tangle. Ever present was the fear that we would blindly step on a resting seal or sea lion – the shock of a previous seal/tussock encounter had been etched on my memory.

Did we pack the machetes?

Which clump of tussock did you say to turn left at?

Thankfully, our fears of being ambushed by 500 kilograms of grey blubber did not materialise and after a 30 minute wade through the tussock, the whole party managed to safely reach our goal on the other side of the island - the Rock Hopper penguin nurseries on the cliffs. I have to say, it was well worth the effort to get here. As we nervously edged our way towards the rocky precipices, we were confronted by literally dozens and dozens of small, plump penguins, perched nonchalantly on the sheer faces. Living up to their names, their almost magical ability to scale these high and steep cliffs is truly astounding, made all the more remarkable when you think of a penguin's traditionally awkward gait on dry land. We were able to get so close, there were times I could have reached out and stroked some of them on the head, which was a complete contrast to the rather aloof nature of the Magellanics of Gypsy Cove. I suspect these hardy little free climbers were safe in the knowledge that to get really close, would result in a long and terminal drop for the over-eager human tourist. Needless to say, and before I am crucified by any conservationists, I did not touch any of them. For one thing the smell radiating from them is not the most appealing – think large pile of used cat litter. Instead I hunted them with my camera lens. 

A rather handsome little chap.

The evening's faunal chocolate box still had other flavours for us to savour. Gazing out into the South Atlantic from the cliffs, we were able to glimpse the more than occasional water spout from passing whales. They were tantalisingly close, yet frustratingly out of sight; however, as they follow the krill closer to shore, there would hopefully be opportunities to see them on a not too distant future boat trip. At this point we decided to make our way back to the landing site. We still had one more natural wonder to view and getting lost in the tussock after dark was not an appetising prospect. The return journey did actually take longer, largely due to walking round in circles at one point - one of the hazards of trying to navigate through head-high tussock. Another hazard, from the increasingly louder guttural snorts of the seals to our left, was also getting ever more present. I couldn't shake Jurassic Park scenes of hunting Velociraptors from my irrational mind, as we battled our way back through the jungle. We made it back to the beach just in time for the final spectacle of the dying evening. At dusk, thousands of Sooty Shearwater seabirds return from a day's fishing, to their burrows in the tussock. We had earlier been careful not to get a foot stuck in these rather incongruous holes. The birds started as a trickle, but almost at a flick of a switch, the darkening skies were filled with literally thousands of birds circling the dunes, readying to dive into their nightly abodes. As we stood there, they slowly started to circle lower and lower and then one by one literally dive into the tussock - whether you were in the way or not! Olivia got the fright of her life, standing next to one of the burrows, as a dark feathered bullet zipped past her, only inches away. Feeling the draft and hearing the swish of these birds rocket past my ears, reminded me that I had never experienced anything like this before. I could also see now how they could have been the inspiration for Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.

There were a lot of young Rock Hoppers on the cliffs.

All in all, it had been a great way to spend a Friday evening, and even the torrential rain that started to pour on us, as we waited for the motor dingy, to return us to the launch, could not dampen the experience. Now it was time to act as a pillow for the rather tired 5 year old, as we made our way back to the glittering lights of Stanley. 

I'm a penguin, honest!

Hunter and prey... 

Some evening sun at last.

More babies.