
Why remote South Georgia just happens to be the greatest island on Earth
'One cannot be angry when one looks at a penguin,' wrote the English essayist John Ruskin in 1860. And he was right. Whether it was tears of joy, or my eyes watering at the fishy pong of several hundred thousand king penguins shoehorned along St Andrews Bay beach, I was wreathed in smiles.
This was my fourth visit to the subantarctic British Overseas Territory of South Georgia. Not only is it the most intense wildlife-watching island on Earth, with millions of penguins and seals, and skies swirling with albatrosses, it's also a paradigm for ecosystem recovery that offers a blueprint for how humanity might just protect global biodiversity via non-intervention. For any wildlife-lover considering a trip of a lifetime to Antarctica, I'd recommend the extra time and cost to include it in your voyage. Biologically, it's like Antarctica on steroids.
The island lies two days sailing east of the Falkland Islands and two days north of Antarctica. Mountainous and glaciated, cascading meltwater streams incise surf-wracked beaches surrounded by a cold sea, rich with krill that is feasted upon by marine mammals.
It's only reachable by expedition cruise vessel because there is no airport nor tourist accommodation ashore. Typical cruises to this region are 11-day voyages sailing back-and-forth between Ushuaia in southern Argentina to the Antarctic Peninsula, yet some vessels offer extended itineraries factoring in South Georgia and the Falklands. These less-frequent three-week epics are typically £4-5,000 more than a standalone Antarctic trip during the austral summer season (November-March).
Arriving from the Falklands, I begin a four-day traverse down South Georgia's eastern coast onboard M/S Seaventure with 102 fellow passengers. The coastal waters soon fizz with diving whales and feeding penguins skimming along like bouncing bombs. Above, wandering albatrosses, possessing the avian world's largest wingspan, soar effortlessly on the billowing winds.
'From a natural history perspective, you have that combination of a David Attenborough documentary where you're completely surrounded by wildlife that doesn't care about your presence,' says Dan Brown, our sharp-eyed ornithologist. 'Humans completely exploited the island and drove most animals towards extinction but now everything is rebounding.'
Since James Cook claimed it for Britain in 1775, South Georgia has been rather mournful. By the time Ernest Shackleton washed up here on a small lifeboat in 1916 after escaping Antarctica when the Endurance sank, sealers had decimated its seals and penguins. Thereafter, Norwegian whalers plundered the Southern Ocean's whales until the mid-1960s when there were none left to be flensed. Argentinian soldiers invaded in 1982 and precipitated the Falklands conflict – and it made global news more recently when an iceberg called A23a, twice the area of New York City, grounded off South Georgia's western coastline.
Our ship's captain had the titanic sense to steer well clear.
Now left alone, South Georgia's wildlife has recovered rampantly. Each day, we venture ashore by Zodiac dinghies. This is never straightforward because penguins and seals are so densely packed along the shoreline, there is little space to land.
We first disembark at Rosita Harbour in the Bay of Isles. Framed by shadowy fog-obscured cliffs, the shingle beach writhes with adolescent seal pups. By the late 19th century, fur seals numbered a few thousand here, but ending sealing, and the creation of a marine protected zone to defend the surrounding ocean's krill stocks from overfishing, has helped their population balloon to 5.5 million. Wide-eyed and adorable, the pups play-fight in the surf and bound enthusiastically towards us from the coarse tussock-grass clumps (South Georgia has no trees). We are advised to stand tall and spread our arms to appear formidable and, indeed, they back down.
'It's a quieter site to start as we wanted to manage expectations,' says the Australian expedition leader, Marty Garwood. Expectations, however, soon skyrocket. Several hours later, we pass blue whales, the largest mammal ever to exist. They are slowly recovering here post-whaling.
Elsewhere, humpback whales, who've been causing a stir with a flurry of sightings in UK waters, are commonplace and sometimes breach the waves in breathtaking aerial displays.
Seven relic whaling stations remain on South Georgia, mostly off-limits due to dangerous structures and asbestos. We hike between two of them – from Leith to Stromness – where I sight the old manager's wooden house where Shackleton arrived after a desperate hike from the opposite uninhabited west coast, across the island's forbidding mountainous spine, to safety.
The one former whaling station that visitors can explore, Grytviken retains a poignant Shackleton connection. Along a shoreline of decaying whaling vessels, one with a harpoon gun still mounted, I walk to a pretty wooden church, built in 1913 by the Norwegian whaling community, where Shackleton's funeral service took place, and then to the small cemetery, surrounded by a white picket fence, where he was buried, his headstone inscribed with the poetry of Robert Browning. He died offshore in 1922 on board the Quest on the verge of another Antarctic venture. Custom dictated I toasted his headstone with a dram of whisky.
Grytviken is not all about ghosts, however. A handful of administrative staff and scientists live here monitoring the marine protection zone – and there's a museum and post office-plus-gift shop where I send a postcard back home, although it will take months to arrive. All proceeds go to the South Georgia Heritage Trust (SGHT) which funds protection of the island's history and nature. It raised £8 million for a rat eradication program, enabling colonies of nesting albatross and the Southern Ocean's only songbird, an endemic pipit, to flourish once again after their chicks and eggs had previously been decimated by the rodents.
'I've been coming here since 2014 – South Georgia just draws me back,' SGHT's island director, Deirdre Mitchell, tells me. She spends six months on the island each season. 'I've never been anywhere like it,' she says. 'Such wilderness on my doorstep where wildlife is the top dog, and we exist around it.' SGHT is currently fundraising to build a memorial to the 175,000 whales killed here, due to be unveiled this year.
That afternoon, we step ashore on St Andrews Bay's beach, home to the world's largest colony of king penguins, some 175,000 pairs. This metre-high species has golden-treacle splashes of colour and is beautifully photogenic. They sneak up on you, cocking their heads out of curiosity before tilting their slender necks skywards to emit calls like an orchestra of kazoos.
When we finally leave to sail south to Antarctica, South Georgia delivers a spectacular farewell. A dozen orca race our bow, causing shrieks and whoops from all of us on board as they crisscross in front of Seaventure. Watching with me is Conny Bartl, director of sales with Polar Latitudes, who chartered the vessel. 'I asked a writer once on one of these voyages what words he would use to describe South Georgia,' she said. 'He said I'd be better asking a poet'.
How to do it
A 25-day tailor-made trip to Antarctica with Audley Travel costs from £19,700 per person (based on two sharing).
The itinerary includes an 18-night Polar Latitudes 'Falklands, South Georgia & Antarctica' cruise in a window stateroom as well as three nights in Buenos Aires (B&B) and two nights in Ushuaia (B&B). The price also includes international and domestic flights and transfers.
Mark travelled to Antarctica as a guest of Audley Travel.
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Telegraph
7 hours ago
- Telegraph
The risk of death is greater than safari goers would like to believe
There's a mistaken assumption that heavy rains halt play for most wildlife. But one thing I've learnt from my 50-plus safaris is that animals – particularly predators – are reliably unpredictable. My most recent uncomfortably close encounter occurred earlier this year during the height of Kenya's rainy season. Thick grey clouds had gathered over the luxury lodge where I was staying on the edge of the Maasai Mara, accelerating the onset of dusk. During daylight hours, it's generally considered safe to walk freely between rooms – even in unfenced areas – so with the sun still hovering above the horizon, I assumed a short dash to the communal dining area would be fine. As I left my fancy villa, furiously scrolling through emails on my phone, I heard a growl far louder than peals of thunder tearing across the plains. Looking up, I saw the back end of a lioness prowling through the undergrowth and I did exactly what I've always been told not to do – I turned around and ran. In reality, she was probably more terrified of the giant two-legged creature encroaching on her territory – but bumping into a big cat in Africa doesn't always end so well. On May 30, businessman Bernd Kebbel was mauled to death by a lioness as he stepped out of his tent to use the toilet. He was camping in Namibia's Hoanib Valley, a remote area where desert-adapted lions roam along seasonal riverbeds. I'd visited the region only two weeks previously and had been thrilled to spot a lion in a region historically ravaged by drought. According to a survey carried out by Namibia's Ministry of Environment, Forestry and Tourism (MEFT) in 2022/2023, there are less than 100 desert-adapted lions in the country, with numbers fluctuating due to human/wildlife conflict. That population declined further when Charlie, the lioness responsible for the attack, was shot dead by authorities. What happened to Mr Kebbel was tragic, but it's not the first time that foreigners have had fatal run-ins with animals. Last year, an American tourist was killed when an elephant charged their vehicle in Zambia's Kafue National Park. A month earlier, a Spanish traveller was trampled to death by a breeding herd when he stepped out of his car to take a photograph in a South African game reserve. As the safari industry continues to thrive and our appetite for wild encounters grows, our guards have dropped faster than the fences which once enclosed many camps. I've always been an advocate for opening up corridors, allowing elephant herds to follow traditional migratory routes and predator-prey dynamics to naturally evolve. But living alongside wildlife requires careful and cautious planning and as human populations continue to grow, that relationship hangs in a delicate balance. The real problem is not 'them' but 'us' and the safari industry is partly to blame. Cultivated by marketers eager to sell holidays, the romantic, Disneyfied notion of an idyllic wilderness is misguided. On countless game drives, I've watched vehicles edge uncomfortably close to potentially dangerous animals in the hope of getting a better iPhone photograph. There's also an assumption that booking a room in a five-star lodge gives us carte blanche to wander around freely as we would at home. Despite repeated warnings from staff, it's all too easy to switch off our senses – ironically detaching ourselves from an environment where we're encouraged to feel immersed. To their credit, many camps – like Angama Amboseli in Kenya and Dukes in Botswana – are attempting to educate travellers about the true struggles of human and wildlife co-existence. But due to a combination of complacency and over-confidence, too many have lost a healthy, respectful fear for the wild. Of course, not every creature in Africa's forests, plains and oceans is actively set on killing humans. Far from it. Most would prefer to be left to continue their lives undisturbed. But blurring the invisible boundaries which should exist between humans and wild animals can lead to fatal accidents. Every time I look into a lion's eyes, I shudder. Hearing their guttural roars outside my tent still sends me into shivers. That tingling fear is humbling – a reminder of the awesome wonders existing within our natural world. Several years ago, I joined a mobile safari through northern Namibia with the late conservationist Garth Owen Smith. One night, we camped on a dry riverbed, close to the Hoanib Valley. As we fell asleep, listening to lions roar, I asked Owen Smith why nobody had thought to pack a rifle for protection. 'Because we might be tempted to use it,' he replied matter-of-factly. Years later, his response makes total sense. Far more effective than bullets, fear, respect and caution are the greatest weapons we have to protect ourselves in a world which should always be alluringly but dangerously wild.


The Guardian
17 hours ago
- The Guardian
Week in wildlife: an elephant goes shopping and a tiger gets a pedicure
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'Tschuna came back round relatively quickly and should have a speedy recovery, though she probably has a bit of a headache from the anaesthetic,' said Dr Charlotte MacDonald, the park's director of animals Photograph: Danny Lawson/PA A moth emerges from a cocoon while hanging from a clothesline in the gardens of the Natural History Museum in Mexico City, Mexico Photograph: Marco Ugarte/AP A deer peers out from Catherine Chevalier woods, in Chicago, Illinois, US. The forest enclave supports a variety of wildlife despite its position right next to O'Hare International, one of the world's busiest airports Photograph: Anadolu/Getty Images An aerial view of a stork with two chicks on their nest, situated on a high-voltage line mast in Bouée, western France Photograph: Loïc Venance/AFP/Getty Images A great horned owl in Bernal Heights, San Francisco, California, US. The owl family, whose nest is less well hidden than most, has become a sensation in the neighbourhood. 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Times
18 hours ago
- Times
17 of the best places to see wildlife in Costa Rica
Land of tropical rainforests, cloud-covered volcanoes and Caribbean and Pacific coasts that form a highway for migrating whales, Costa Rica is an intensely rewarding destination for wildlife lovers. Around half a million species of wild animals await in its national parks, wildlife refuges, biological reserves and protected areas designed to promote ecotourism. Thanks to anti-logging laws brought in by the government in the 80s and 90s, Central America's 'rich coast' is the first tropical country to have reversed deforestation, returning 60 per cent of its terrain to tree cover. Which is good news not just for travellers hoping to enjoy sightings of creatures such as the emoji-inspiring blue morpho butterfly, giant anteater and jaguar in their natural habitats, but for the planet, too. This article contains affiliate links, which may earn us revenue The sloth is a Costa Rican curiosity: though they spend most of their lives in the trees, evolutionarily speaking they're actually most closely related to the anteater. Two types of sloth can be seen creeping around the treetops: the three-toed and two-toed sloth. Their favourite food is the cecropia tree, so theoretically they can be seen anywhere the tree grows. For a reliable sighting, look for them particularly in the canopy of the popular Parque Nacional Manuel Antonio, three hours' south of San Jose, or better still in the forests of the Osa Peninsula on the Pacific coast. For sighting certainty, visit the Sloth Sanctuary, 30 minutes south of the east-coast city of Limon, where rescued sloths live out their days in safety. Sanctuary staff offer excellent talks and tours. • Discover our full guide to Costa Rica The cheeky capuchin has a reputation for dexterity thanks to its astonishingly mobile prehensile tail, which it essentially uses as an extra limb. They're easily identified thanks to their shaggy white face and shoulders. Keep your eye on them; they're also notorious pickpockets and will happily pinch anything they can get their little hands on. Howler monkeys are the foghorns of the tropical forest, with a distinctive whooping call that echoes for miles through the canopy. Both monkeys are common, especially inside national parks, but the forested slopes around Volcan Arenal are generally less crowded than the better-known parks. Surely the showiest bird in Costa Rica is the extravagantly coloured (and equally extravagantly named) resplendent quetzal, with its gleaming green plumage and crimson breast. Its feathers were prized by the Aztecs and Mayans, and the bird also had mythological significance. The prime time for viewing is the breeding season between March and June; try the Monteverde Cloud Forest, or better still the Parque Nacional Los Quetzales, a 50 sq km patch of cloud forest on the flanks of the Cordillera de Talamanca, about 120km southeast of San Jose. Cahuita can be busy, but for a quick nature hit it's great — it has a mix of ecosystems, including coast, beach, reef and rainforest. Iguanas can be seen lounging around on logs and basking on the riverbanks, especially early in the day when they need to warm up their blood. Cahuita is also an important turtle nesting site. Avoid weekends, which can be overcrowded — early mornings or late evenings during the week are usually quieter. Is this Costa Rica's cutest monkey? Many people think so, thanks to their diminutive dimensions and playful antics: they like to wander around in family groups and watching them interact with each other is enormously entertaining. They primarily live on the Pacific coast: the Nicoya Peninsula and Parque Nacional Manuel Antonio have decent numbers, although the monkeys are more shy than capuchins and howler monkeys, meaning you'll have to be patient if you want to see them. This bright blue butterfly — between 12.5cm and 20cm wide — is one of Costa Rica's largest. It's a beautiful presence in many of the country's forests, but it can be tricky to see them in the wild, so visiting a dedicated butterfly observatory or breeding centre is usually a better bet. Blue morphos can be seen at the Butterfly Conservatory in El Castillo and the excellent Ecocentro Danaus in La Fortuna, which is also a good place to see poison dart frogs. Crocodiles and caimans can be spotted all across Costa Rica's lowland wetlands on both coasts, with the crocs reaching up to a colossal 6m in length and caimans (distinguishable by their shorter, wider snout) usually shorter. But for a surefire, up-close encounter with the crocodylus acutus, head to the Tarcoles River, whose brackish waters and pebbly banks are home to one of the largest American crocodile populations in the world. Crocodile Bridge, on Route 34, around a 90-minute drive south of San Jose and half an hour north of surf town Jaco, offers a thrilling vantage point, as well as a cluster of pit stop-friendly soda restaurants, ice-cream parlours and souvenir shops. While not as cute as the squirrel monkey or show-stopping as the jaguar, the blue land crab, aka Halloween, whitespot, moon or harlequin crab, serves up one of Costa Rica's most surprising wildlife 'wows'. Emerging in their droves after dark — all powerful purple claws, orange legs and ghostly yellow spots that resemble eyes — they mobilise noisily through the steamy coastal jungle within 1km of the country's Pacific coast (the Osa Peninsula and Playa Uvita being hotspots), marching determinedly over anything that gets in their way, including the feet of any passing humans. The engineers of the tropical rainforest ecosystem, they play a crucial role in driving tree renewal through aerating the soil, removing leaf litter and creating carbon-rich microhabitats. This west-coast marine park, and the spit of land to the south (especially around Drake Bay) are whale-watching hotspots. These mighty mammals migrate to Costa Rica's Pacific coast to breed and give birth — very unusually, from both the northern and southern hemispheres, giving an unusually long whale-watching season. July to November is the peak time for the southern migration, when whales travel from as far away as Antarctica, while December to April is the peak time for the northern migration, mainly from the waters of the northwest US and Canada. Operators accredited by Certificación para la Sostenibilidad Turística (CST), a government-controlled rating system for sustainable practices, include Ballena Aventura, Dolphin Tour and Ballena Infocenter. • Discover the best places in the world for whale-watching There are 18 different parrot species in Costa Rica, but most distinctive of all is the scarlet macaw, whose flame-feathered finery makes them easy to spot (you'll hear them long before you see them as they're also famous for their screechingly loud squawk). Scarlet macaws are fairly easy to see in Parque Nacional Carara and around the Osa Peninsula, but their cousins, the great green macaws, are altogether rarer: only around 500 of these birds remain, mainly in the forests of the north and Caribbean coast, especially around Tortuguero. To support macaw conservation, visit the excellent Punta Islita Wild Macaw Reserve on the Nicoya Peninsula; tours are run by staff from the Macaw Recovery Network. It must be the busiest bird in existence — and Costa Rica is home to more than 50 species of hummingbird. They're a vital part of the ecosystem, pollinating many types of flowers and plants, including rare endemic orchids. Costa Rica's unique cloud forests are the top places to see them — particularly at Reserva Biologica Bosque Nuboso Monteverde (the Monteverde Cloud Forest Biological Reserve), an oasis of biodiversity established in the 1970s in the mountains inland from Puntarenas by a partnership between scientists and indigenous people. Professional naturalists lead tours into the reserve, which also has its own basic residential lodge if you feel like spending more time here. The reserve is roughly equidistant from San Jose and Liberia. These prodigiously beaked birds are distinctive, but you'll need expertise to tell the six different species apart. Best-known is the keel-billed, or rainbow-billed toucan, which has the classic multicoloured beak. Different species concentrate in different areas: for keel-billed toucan and yellow-eared toucanets try Parque Nacional Manuel Antonio; for fiery-billed aracari and chestnut-mandibled toucans, head to Tortuguero or Parque Nacional Corcovado; for collared toucans try Cahuita; and for emerald toucanets go to the Monteverde Cloud Forest. The waterways of this tropical coastal park are home to a prodigious variety of life. Crocodiles and caimans lounge around on the banks, spider monkeys frolic through the trees and tree frogs can be spied in the foliage, but the park's prize animals are the green sea turtles, for whom the park is an important nesting site. Prized by unscrupulous collectors, the eggs are protected by coastal rangers and conservation staff as well as an army of volunteers (it's a popular place for an eco holiday). July and August are the peak months for turtles, but the season often runs into October. The park is best explored by kayak or canoe — you'll feel like Indiana Jones paddling along its creeper-covered backwaters. Covering more than two-fifths of the Osa Peninsula, Corcovado is as close as Costa Rica gets to the Garden of Eden. This magnificent tropical rainforest is one of the few remnants of the primary tropical forest that once cloaked much of Central America. As such, it's also a precious oasis of biodiversity and a refuge for many of the rarest and most endangered animals in Costa Rica, including the Baird's tapir, the giant anteater and, most charismatic and elusive of all, the jaguar. They're incredibly hard to spot, and extremely rare, so you will almost certainly need an experienced local guide — and a massive dose of luck — to see one. But don't be disappointed if you don't: Corcovado's incredible wildlife astounds, even by Costa Rican's stellar standards. Lodges such as Ecoturístico La Tarde can put you in touch with local nature guides. For a 100 per cent guaranteed cat-sighting, head for the Las Pumas Rescue Centre, which rehabilitates cats before returning them back to the wild. These great ocean cruisers — the largest fish on the planet — can reach 18m in length and weigh in excess of 30 tons. They can be elusive visitors in Costa Rica, although most often show up in the waters off the Reserva Biologica Isla del Canõ. Diving and snorkelling operators are your best bet for seeing them: try Bahia Aventuras in Uvita, who also run whale and dolphin-spotting tours into Parque Nacional Marino Ballena. Legendary for its waterbirds — and its voracious mosquitoes — this 198 sq km wetland at the head of the Golfo de Nicoya offers a variety of habitats, including mangrove forests, savannahs, marshes and coastal woodlands. It's brilliant for birders, with everything from egrets and spoonbills to storks, ibises and night herons flocking here: December to March, the dry season, is best for bird-spotting, as species cluster together in smaller areas. The park also has Costa Rica's largest population of jaguarundi, the slender wild cats whose long tail and small head give rise to its nickname of 'otter cat'. Boat tours and night-time wildlife walks can be arranged through the OTS Hacienda Palo Verde Ranger Station. Related to the raccoon, but with a longer snout and skinnier tail, coatis (or coatimundis) can be spied nosing around in the undergrowth pretty much everywhere you travel in Costa Rica, especially in early morning and late evening. They're cute, but they can be a bit of a nuisance, raiding bins and unguarded food, so resist the temptation to feed them. • Best hotels in Costa Rica• Best time to visit Costa Rica• The best of Central America Overtourism and unscrupulous operators are as rife in Costa Rica as anywhere, which is why it's doubly important to research your experiences carefully before choosing. It's a bit of a minefield, but in general: • Look for a high 'leaf' rating from the CST. Five leaves is best. • Enquire about partnerships with local conservation groups and ecotourism initiatives. • Aim to choose a business that has good grassroots connections and employs local workers. • Ask lots of questions. If the business can't answer them satisfactorily, look elsewhere. Try to get recommendations from reliable sources, such as conservation charities and ecotourism specialists. Additional reporting by Imogen Lepere and Julie Alpine