Let me be brutally honest here. There are some languages that flow rhythmically and poetically from mouth to ear like some glorious Shakespearian, Mozartian love child – German is not one of them. In truth I have grown quite an affinity to the German people since being released by the cultural grip of semi disdain and suspicion often still experienced in England. Give me a a bushy mustached Hans in a lederhosen as a drinking buddy any time. That being said, a torrent of German still feels like I’m being flogged with cat and water boarded at the same time.
I thrust my hands deep into the coat pockets, a refuge from the biting cold. The Beagle Channel stretches before me. A fierce, angry wind growls in from the sea. Great hulking ships sit dormant in port. Monsters of nautical travel – ice breakers – Antarctic ships. The frozen continent lies a thousand kilometers to the south. Bronze busts of past explorers line the waterfront, staring whistfully out to sea. I have no idea who any of them are – but if their clothing, steely gaze and sensational facial hair are anything to go by they were quite something.