South Georgia

Day 1 & 2 – Getting to Puerto Williams

This was quite the adventure — and not in a good way.

Suitcases were placed outside our hotel door by 6:15 am, even though our flight wasn’t scheduled to depart until 1:20 pm from a private airstrip. Partway through the morning we received a note advising that departure had been pushed back to 2:40 pm, which meant a lot more hanging around than anticipated. Still, we’re good travellers, so we accepted it and did what you do in these situations — got on with it.

Eventually it was time to board the bus, about a 30-minute drive to the airstrip. Not long after, we were boarding our plane to Puerto Williams. According to the map, we would be flying due south — just under a four-hour flight — and we were seated on the right-hand side, perfectly positioned for magnificent views of the Andes.

About an hour into the flight, the plane made a gentle turn to the right. I thought it was odd. Then the turn continued and, before long, we were clearly heading north. I said to John, something’s wrong — we’re flying north. He insisted we couldn’t be. I pointed out that the setting sun was now on the wrong side of the plane. About ten minutes later, the pilot came over the intercom to say that, for safety reasons, we would be returning to Santiago.

So, another hour back — in a plane that now felt decidedly dodgy.

I’ve been in this situation before. Everyone stays calm, there’s very little information, and the phrase for safety reasons covers a multitude of possibilities. I know enough about flying to know that if it were truly serious, we’d be landing at the nearest suitable airport — and there is one at Pucón that could have taken us. Still, when we landed back in Santiago, anxiety levels were high, understandably so.

Fire trucks followed us down the runway as we touched down. As we taxied, we could see another aircraft being prepared nearby, which gave us some hope that perhaps we wouldn’t be spending the night in Santiago after all.

Then it was back on the plane. Antarctic Airways paint their aircraft as penguins, and this time we were boarding the Chinstrap Penguin plane — already a marked improvement. It was noticeably roomier than the earlier, unmarked aircraft, so at least there was a small upside to changing planes.

We finally took off again, though by now it was 7:30 pm. What was meant to be a 45-minute turnaround had stretched to nearly two hours. Still, we were on our way.

About three and a half hours into the flight, the pilot came over the intercom to say that the weather in Puerto Williams was too severe for landing, and we would instead be diverting to Puerto Arenas. Sigh.

Patagonia was living up to its reputation. The winds were extremely strong, resulting in a powered descent that was, frankly, a little scary — rev, glide, rev, glide. It felt rather like a learner driver behind the throttle, though clearly entirely necessary to maintain control. Thankfully, we landed safely.

We were advised that we would be transferred to a hotel — which, rather miraculously, happened to have 60 rooms available for us. We checked in at 1:30 am, were in our rooms by 1:45 am, and then given the following instructions: luggage outside the door by 3:00 am, breakfast at 5:30 am, and the bus departing at 6:30 am.

Oh boy. Not a great start, and not a particularly strong first impression of Silversea.

That said, there was no point whinging. Once again, we did what seasoned travellers do — got on with it. We put our suitcases outside before going to sleep and set the alarms for 6:00 am. We slept reasonably well, all things considered, though it amounted to barely two and a half hours.

Up again. Breakfast. Bus. Plane. It was starting to feel very much like Groundhog Day.

By 8:30 am, we were boarding yet another flight — this time a mercifully short 40-minute hop — and at last, we were truly on our way to Puerto Williams.

At last, we touched down in Puerto Williams. Surely, we thought, this would be met with upgraded rooms or at least a note of apology from Silversea after the last 24 hours. But no — nada, zip, sweet nothing. I have to say, it wasn’t a great first impression.

I fully understand that Antarctic adventures are weather-dependent. You accept that you can travel all this way and, in the worst case, never even set foot on the continent. That’s part of the deal. But these particular issues occurred where service and communication are entirely controllable, which made the experience more frustrating than it needed to be.

That said, once we boarded the ship, everything changed.

Our suite is gorgeous. We have our very own butler (I’m sure she’s shared with other suites), and from the moment we stepped onboard, everything was seamless. There is ample space for clothes, a proper walk-in wardrobe, and even a drying cupboard for our parkas, which are provided for the expedition. You truly cannot fault the onboard service — every detail is anticipated, every need quietly met.

Whatever frustrations existed on land were left behind at the gangway. Onboard, perfection.

I love this photo of John — gloriously unshaven, having planned his shave for quite some time now. It’s just taken us a little longer than anticipated to actually get there. We enjoy a leisurely breakfast and then properly settle in. The ship isn’t due to leave port until 4:00 pm, so there’s no rush at all.

A full day later than originally planned, we finally steam up the Beagle Strait, beginning our journey towards South Georgia. Life onboard quickly finds its rhythm. There are talks and lectures running throughout the day, all of which can be attended live or watched later as recordings — everything is exceptionally well organised and thoughtfully presented.

I have a facial booked (why not?), and we begin meeting fellow travellers at a steady pace. Between the two of us, we are hopeless at remembering names, but everyone is friendly and equally excited to be here.

The first lecture we attend is on the Birds of Antarctica, where we learn about the magnificent wandering albatross. It’s surprisingly easy to distinguish in flight, as it barely flaps its wings at all. Unlike most birds, whose wings function in two parts when flapping, the albatross’s wings operate in three sections, allowing it to lock into the wind and soar effortlessly for hours. Using powerful Southern Ocean winds, it glides vast distances in search of prey and is often drawn to ships, mistaking them for fishing vessels. We’re told we’ll see plenty of them as we make our way up the Beagle Strait — a fitting, almost poetic escort for the journey ahead.

Day 3 & 4 John's Birthday and Christmas

We managed a good night’s sleep, although it was very rocky. We’d been told we would be skirting the edge of the Drake Passage, with swells expected to reach three metres. Looking out the window, it didn’t appear too bad, but inside it was a constant rhythm — up and down, up and down — and I was definitely feeling it.

I knew this was a real possibility, so I came prepared. We dosed up on the seasickness tablets, put on the bands — fully armed — and yet I still felt awful. Eventually, I visited the ship’s doctor, who kindly administered an injection and gave me something stronger than what I’d been taking. The difference was immediate and remarkable. I could actually look outside again without the overwhelming fear of projectile vomiting, which felt like a significant win.

It’s John’s birthday today, and he got his wish for a very plain one — spent largely with me in bed. Even John had a bout of seasickness, which is very unlike him, so that tells you just how lively the conditions were. We still managed a few chats and met more lovely people whose names, once again, we are utterly incapable of remembering.

And then, just the perfect amount of fuss for John’s birthday — exactly his style. This is what we came back to after dinner.

It’s Christmas, and we are 759 nautical miles from Puerto Williams, with another 350 miles to go before we reach South Georgia. The forecast remains unchanged, with swells expected to stay around three metres. For now, it’s a day of rest, rocking gently (and sometimes not so gently) toward the next great destination.

Below is a video trying to catpure the extent of the rolling, now you see the horis=zon, now you don't.

One of the unexpected highlights of the trip — and my biggest surprise — has been the number of Zimbabweans on the ship’s staff. There are seven in total, and at times it feels like being transported straight back there. Nyerena gave me my facial, while Princess, Peter, Smile, and Blessing look after us in the restaurants. They greet us and treat us like family, and somewhere along the way John has officially become an adopted Zimbabwean.

Christmas morning was particularly special. I’d greet them with a high-pitched “Eeeeh, conjunji!”, and it was met with laughter, hugs, and genuine warmth — like being reunited with long-lost cousins rather than guests on a ship. In the middle of the Southern Ocean, that sense of familiarity and connection was both unexpected and deeply comforting.

Day 4 - we just saw our first Iceberg.

Day 5 - Prince Olav Bay, South Georgia

When we woke this morning, we could see land for the first time in two and a half days, and what a welcome sight it was. South Georgia rose from the sea — long and dramatic, with a spine of rugged mountains and volcanoes running through its centre. This is the island where Ernest Shackleton is buried, and where he completed that almost unimaginable journey, navigating a small lifeboat and then crossing the island on foot to save his men. Just knowing that history unfolded here adds another layer to an already powerful place.

Our first stop was Prince Olav Bay, home to the remains of an old whaling station. The site is still very much a wreck and hasn’t been made safe, so we weren’t permitted to go ashore — not that we could have anyway. The shoreline was completely taken over by fur seals and their pups, leaving no spare inch of ground. Instead, we explored by Zodiac, which are craned down from the ship and boarded directly — an impressively smooth operation. Every detail has been thought through, right down to the mud room where our boots are stored on heated rods to dry between outings.

The temperature hovered between 0 and 2 degrees Celsius, and being out on the water made it feel even colder, so we rugged up before a short safety briefing and then set off. Icebergs were scattered everywhere, seals frolicked alongside us, pups cried out from the shore, and the landscape shifted constantly — from black volcanic rock to mossy green slopes, then up to snow-covered shelves and glaciers. It was simply spectacular.

The highlights were the sheer number of Antarctic fur seals and their pups. They are playful, curious, and endlessly entertaining, leaping and porpoising around the boats. They also have the most adorable faces — though it’s worth remembering they come equipped with very sharp teeth and a rather wicked bite. We also saw elephant seal weaners, which I won’t pretend I can confidently distinguish from one another.

This was also our first encounter with king penguins, along with gentoo penguins, a moment I’ve been waiting for. Birdlife was abundant, and we witnessed a rare and sobering sight: giant petrels feeding on a seal that had just died. These birds are scavengers, and the feeding frenzy was intense and raw — a stark reminder of how nature works in these remote places.

One truly special moment was spotting an albino fur seal, a very rare sighting. Completely white, it stood out unmistakably among the others — you can see it in the video below. A remarkable end to an unforgettable first day in outing South Georgia.

Day 5 - Landing at Fortuna Bay, King Penguin Colony

Oh my, oh my — and we thought the morning was good. Just wait until you see the photos and videos from today.

After lunch, once all the Zodiacs had returned from the morning’s outing, the ship repositioned, sailing around a few bays to Fortuna Bay. If the weather allowed, this would be our chance to land and touch terra firma for the first time in four days. There are, understandably, many strict rules and regulations in place in South Georgia and Antarctica to protect this pristine environment. Nothing is allowed to touch the land except our boots, and we are thoroughly sprayed both before going ashore and again on return to prevent the spread of anything unwanted — the biggest concern being avian flu.

The Zodiac ride is short, followed by a wet landing. Thankfully, with waterproof boots and pants, it’s neither as cold nor as daunting as it sounds. The beach itself is rocky, but beyond it the ground softens into lush, mossy grass. The shoreline is lined with fur seals and their pups, only weeks old — impossibly cute, though we’re well aware of those sharp teeth.

Scattered along the slopes are king penguins, their white, shimmering bellies catching the sunlight. They look faintly ridiculous when they waddle, yet utterly magnificent when standing tall, necks stretched skyward, their orange, white, and black markings almost fluorescent in the light. The chicks are brown, fluffy bundles that somehow look bigger than their parents. We learn that a king penguin can distinguish its own chick’s call among thousands — astonishing when, to us, it sounds like a swarm of drones buzzing past our ears. Turn the sound up on the video to appreciate it.

And then the drone sound grows louder. The air takes on a distinctly fishy smell. Out comes the Tiger Balm. The noise intensifies, almost deafening, and just as you round the corner, you have to stop your jaw from hitting the ground. There it is — the king penguin colony. Thousands upon thousands of king penguins and their very noisy chicks, stretching as far as the eye can see.

It is completely out of this world. I feel like I’ve stepped into the middle of an IMAX David Attenborough documentary. Gobsmacked. Speechless. Absolutely stunned by what we experienced today.

Day 6 - Grytviken, South Georgia

After coming tied first in the trivia competition, we enjoyed another good night’s sleep and woke to a foggy, wet morning. It didn’t matter in the slightest — yesterday had already secured its place as one of the best days of the trip.

Today we were in Grytviken, the only part of South Georgia still inhabited by humans. South Georgia is a British Overseas Territory, with a government but no permanent civilian residents. There was a fascinating talk about the immense conservation work carried out here, all funded through charitable donations. The most significant achievement has been the eradication of rodents, which had been devastating the birdlife. The result? An explosion in wildlife so successful that Sir David Attenborough has described South Georgia as an ecosystem in recovery.

And yet, this place carries a heavy history. Grytviken was once at the heart of the whaling industry, and walking among the enormous vats that once held whale blubber is deeply confronting. The scale of slaughter is sobering.

At the same time, life is everywhere. Fur seals. King and Gentoo penguins. And the mighty elephant seals, snorting, sparring, and generally making their presence known. At one point, John was chased by a fur seal — highly amusing to watch from a safe distance. When the guide calmly instructed, “Don’t turn your back on her,” I have never seen John pivot so fast. Newcastle United would scout him on the spot with footwork like that.

It’s extraordinary to think that conservationists choose to live here for six months at a time, in one of the most remote places on Earth, to protect and document this island so that we can experience it as we have.

Day 6 - St Andrews Bay, South Georgia

Our afternoon sojourn is to St Andrews Bay, and although it is pouring with rain, we are still riding high from yesterday and not put off in the slightest. On go all the layers and off we head once more. There is a sizeable swell today, so getting into and out of the Zodiacs is a little more challenging, with the boats rising and falling by about a metre and a half at times. Still, we manage it without incident or stories to tell.

As we approach the beach, all you can see are tiny moving dots stretching for miles and miles, backed by two immense glaciers — a scene so vast it’s hard to comprehend at first. You can smell them too, although the rain seems to soften things somewhat (and John had forgotten his tiger balm). Our landing point is well away from the main colony, which initially puzzled us, but it quickly makes sense: elephant seals are constantly hauling themselves in and out of the sea, and you really do not want to get in their way.

You never tire of what you see here, even the harder moments. We witness seals that have died, one still being guarded while giant petrels circle and begin to feast on the fresh carcass. It is the circle of life, raw and real, though no less confronting for that. Up close, the giant petrels — scavengers of the Southern Ocean — are surprisingly large and imposing. Fur seals lounge lazily on the beach, always keeping a watchful eye on their pups, while the elephant seals resemble enormous, barely mobile blobs of blubber, bellowing occasionally but otherwise conserving energy.

We also encountered Brown Skuas, the unapologetic opportunists of South Georgia. Large, powerful and intelligent, they patrol the edges of the colonies, ever alert for an unguarded chick or egg. They are not subtle birds — bold, assertive and relentless — and watching them work is both fascinating and unsettling. Like everything here, they play a vital role in the ecosystem, even if their methods feel ruthless when witnessed up close.

But let me tell you about the King Penguins.

St Andrews Bay is home to the largest king penguin colony on the planet, with an estimated 400,000 to half a million penguins of all ages present. The scale is utterly overwhelming. The bay itself is a vast glacial outwash plain backed by retreating glaciers, and as those glaciers have pulled back over time, they’ve revealed more and more space for the colony to expand.

The king penguins are in the midst of their moult, which means they are not waterproof and therefore cannot swim or fish until the process is complete. During this time, they must conserve energy, so they gather near fresh-water streams, standing patiently — often rocking back on their heels — to reduce heat loss. Adults gleam with orange, white and black plumage, while the chicks are extraordinary brown, fluffy giants, sometimes appearing larger than their parents. The colony is active year-round, with birds at every stage of the breeding cycle, and the noise — a constant drone of calls — is almost impossible to describe.

It is extraordinary, humbling and completely unforgettable. One of those places where you simply stand still, rain dripping off your hood, trying to absorb the fact that you are witnessing one of the greatest wildlife spectacles on Earth.

We are leaving South Georgia a day early, sensibly running ahead of an approaching weather system. Overnight and for the next two days we will once again cross the Drake Passage. Sea-sickness tablets are already well and truly in our systems and fingers firmly crossed. If you don’t hear from us for a while, there’s a fair chance we’re hugging the toilet bowl and riding it out.