Paradise Harbour & Port Lockroy, Antarctic Peninsula
Paradise by any measure is in the mind of the penitent. Today we lived a moment in a world of gleaming ice castles, cloud softened granitic faces and the incongruous feeble evidence of man’s habitations painted orange with a sad torn rag fluttering on a post. Three weeks ago paradise was glimpsed through a stinging blizzard, Paradise still, but with a different face.
Port Lockroy named by the French explorer Jean Jacques Charcot, Port Lacroix, the name mangled by les Anglais who cannot roll their R’s. A pleasant afternoon kayaking in the protected harbour and visit to the old British station, where some hardy souls survived in the not too distant past and overwintered without a single visit or news from afar.
Paradise by any measure is in the mind of the penitent. Today we lived a moment in a world of gleaming ice castles, cloud softened granitic faces and the incongruous feeble evidence of man’s habitations painted orange with a sad torn rag fluttering on a post. Three weeks ago paradise was glimpsed through a stinging blizzard, Paradise still, but with a different face.
Port Lockroy named by the French explorer Jean Jacques Charcot, Port Lacroix, the name mangled by les Anglais who cannot roll their R’s. A pleasant afternoon kayaking in the protected harbour and visit to the old British station, where some hardy souls survived in the not too distant past and overwintered without a single visit or news from afar.
