Mother Nature’s theatre – “Hold on tight, this landing can loosen a few fillings,” said pilot Andrew as we descended to 20 sq km Bleaker Island in the south-east Falklands. Buffeting winds strafed the flat, grazed, treeless grasslands as Bleaker’s owners, Mike and Phyll Rendell – the sort of self-sufficient islanders I’d encounter all over – came to greet me. “We’ve got 1,100 merino-wool sheep, 67 Herefords and a human population of four… no, make that five – we’ve just hired Cecilia the Chilean cook,” Mike told me. British-born, he came to the Falklands as a Royal Marine and met Phyll. “I’ve been here since 1983 and I’m still on trial,” he joked. Phyll herself was actually dashing off – to pursue her role as member of the islands’ legislature.
“We punch well above our weight,” she said. “Sometimes I’m dealing with the fallout from Argentinean diplomacy; other weeks it’s the grass not being mowed in Stanley.” I stayed at Cassard House, a homely red-roofed bungalow with five rooms overlooking a coastal headland. In between eating (afternoon tea and cake, homemade sausages for breakfast), there was ample time to explore Bleaker’s wildlife-drenched plains. I hiked alone, watching jet-propelled clouds cast ever-changing shadows across the grassland. Fending off the avaricious Antarctic skuas that coveted my picnic, I settled by mile-long Sandy Bay for my first taste of penguin-mania. Small Magellanics (called jackasses because of their braying) were the court jesters, moving as if glued together in mortal panic before diving into peaty burrows.
More robust gentoos were curious and approached closely after torpedoing from the surf. I wandered inland to an animated colony of 8,000 pairs of tall imperial cormorants, which were huddled together to nurse their chicks. They chattered noisily, but not for fun – these were harrowing warnings. Predatory skuas (my wannabe sandwich thieves) encircled the cormorants, picking oft ailing chicks and harassing returning adults, forcing them to regurgitate the food intended for their offspring. Wildlife-watching here is pure theatre, but it’s of the genuine life-versus-death kind.
Don’t sit on the seals… When I arrived on Sea Lion Island, lodge-manager Jenny Luxton related a cheerier tale of survival. “A juvenile orca was stranded on our beach. Its mother was frantic, squealing offshore. It took us two hours to turn the youngster back into the ocean,” she explained. “Then the mother resurfaced and waved her flippers towards us. I’m sure she was saying thank you.” Although a similar size to Bleaker, Sea Lion Island sits in deeper ocean, a 15-minute flight south. Without grazing livestock, this national nature reserve supports a luxuriant thatch of clumpy tussock grass and diddle-dee bushes. The lodge is the most southerly British hotel in the world.
