Westpoint Island, West Falklands:

There's a tendency to want to sit down, to stay, to say "That's it. I'm here. I'm home." Is there some genetic memory at work here, some message sent from ancestors long ago? Admittedly it is a sunny, warm and pleasant day. Life cannot be so idyllic all the time. But imagine owning your own island. What would it be like to walk out the door in the early morning and hear the braying of Magellanic penguins, a sound so like a burro? To wander up the hillsides with rocky outcroppings here and there, splashed with orange lichens and covered in mounded leathery plants in shades of greens and yellows? There's a smell here. I can't describe it quite. Not the sea but a hint of it, mixed with the land, the dark black soil and rippling flaxen grasses. Stride uphill, over the rise where giant birds glide effortlessly against a stiffening breeze. Below their fluffy gray chicks sit in chimney-like nests. Returning, the adult black-browed albatross tenderly touch their beaks then settle in to preen. Mounds of tussoc form mazes shoulder deep. Push your way through to encounter the sudden surprise of red penguin eyes, as knee-high rock-hoppers venture the other way.