Earl de Blonville's photostream

The cliffs are 300' high, and constantly bombarded by the Southern Ocean and storms from Antarctica. No wonder they are so abrupt, denying any wrecked mariner battered by bully's fists of wind or water a final clinch of shore.

I surprised a big bunch in the coastal scrub that regarded me with mild contempt before a perfunctory few hops to the next bend. The male was the biggest and chunkiest Grey I ever beheld. Through the tangle of scrub their well-worn pathways led everywhere, indicating a massive population enjoying their splendid isolation. At dusk they dine elegantly on sweet farmland pasture.

Exploding down from four stories of peaking threat, tons of murderous thick foam-shrieked horror pounded the cliffs without cease. Caught in this, in your boat, your heart would simply stop at the sight.

Its thick white foam, like an English snow covered landscape or ancient outback salt plain, seemingly renders benign what is in fact Antarctica's roadshow of oceanic fury, on tour.

As elegant as the handle of a peacock feather duster, reaching up to softly stroke passing clouds that, so amused, tickle away in childish laughter.