Still no sign of the shearwaters. I suspect they’ve long since gone out into deeper waters. Still, a couple hours’ hike around Cap de l’Estérel and its crumbling WWII fortifications was a welcome change after another morning sheltering from the rain (though I did manage to pop down to the bakery before lunch to pick up some supplies).
The Sardinian warblers are proving to be just as elusive as ever, but the black restarts that live on the peninsula are charming enough in their feverish movements among the bushes in search of food.
One seabird that stays on the coast throughout the year is the Mediterranean shag (phalacrocorax aristotelisdesmarestii), a leaner, paler cousin of the bottle-green bird that we have back home. In the UK – discounting the Farne Islands – I’ve only ever seen these birds at a distance, but in the Mediterranean I’ve had quite a few close encounters.
I’ve always been really struck by how fiercely green their eyes are. So many Pacific seabirds I encountered in Peru and Chile had strikingly red eyes, which I believe is an evolutionary adaptation that helps them to see better in the murky waters of the Humboldt current. I think the vivid green eyes of cormorants and shags share a similar function, but they’re no less impressive for the colour swap.
The sentier littoral (coastal path) that rounds the cape was a lot easier to follow than the one that supposedly laps the lagoon. I imagine it’s a lot busier in the summer months, but I still ran into a few French families and joggers along the way.
The weather is proving to be quite erratic here. The forecast rarely matches the reality: today was supposed to be a washout, but the rain all came down within the space of twenty minutes this morning. With any luck, it’ll be warm enough to go for a sea swim tomorrow. It won’t be quite as warm as the Aegean back in August, but it’d be nice to get a bit of sea swimming in before we go. BB x
The train to Hyéres is delayed by forty minutes, so I’ve stepped outside the station to get some fresh air. The Côte d’Azur is still in the grip of Storm Adam and the skies are the colour of steel, though they look almost blue beyond the sickly glow of the streetlights.
Clouds of cigarette smoke. Black and green olives rolling across the pavement from the trees standing outside the gare. The cheery sing-song jingle of the SNCF echoing over the rush of the wind and the casual drawl of the Provençale accent. Effortlessly chic Toulonnaise girls talking into earpieces, Eastern European sans-abri moving their blankets out of the rain, a Hispanic couple chatting away in slow, heavily accented English and a number of other accurate but overused cliches.
It’s good to be out of England, though. Two weeks without work would have driven me mad with boredom.
The train was delayed by around fifty minutes in the end. At least one of my companions was getting extremely jittery by the lack of signage on the notice boards, even as the train’s departure was seemingly imminent. Thank goodness I’ve been trained on Spain’s AVE and the last-minute-madness. After the rush for the subway in New York this spring and the gauntlet of flights going to and coming back from the Galapagos this summer, it will take a lot more than a ghost train to get under my skin.
France hasn’t ever grabbed me the way Spain has since the start, though I daresay I haven’t ever given it the chance. This is probably my eighth or ninth trip to France, if you include at least three day trips to Calais (and you leave out any holidays where France was simply a staging post), all of which add up to a little over a month on French soil. I’ve lost count of the amount of time I’ve spent in Spain, but it’s almost certainly closer to four years than it is to three.
The Côte d’Azur gets a lot of attention of the summer variety, but it’s quite beautiful under the iron skies of autumn. I’ve packed for the cold, but I wouldn’t begrudge the odd day of sunshine so I can enjoy the Mediterranean once again – it was so blissfully warm back in the summer. There’s talk of curfews because of the violent protests erupted across France right now, so I might not be going for any 3am swims, but I’m looking forward to being (relatively) tech free for a week or so.
If it weren’t for the comms-heavy side of my day job, I’d quite happily sack off the WiFi and go off grid. I miss those blissful evenings back in my year abroad days – before data became a universal thing – where leaving work meant leaving the internet behind. The amount of reading I managed to get done! There’s just no comparison.
I’ve made it to Hyéres. My final destination is the Giens Peninsula, some four kilometres to the south. It’s late and the sky is threatening rain, so I don’t quite fancy walking it. The taxis here are expensive at 40-50€ a throw and the three or four Uber drivers in town are reluctant to accept what is probably not a very cost-effective return journey. But I’m not that bothered. I’m confident we’ll get there somehow. BB x
I was half-tempted to go to bed without eating this evening, but after walking past a sign in a shop window saying LOOK AFTER YOURSELF in big white print and then seeing a team of chefs preparing sea bass in the next window along, my instincts got the better of me. Chances are this will be my last meal out of the summer, so I might as well make it a memorable one.
I got to bed shortly after six fifteen, after Thomas and Maria dropped me off at the apartment. The wedding festivities went on until well into the early hours of the morning, with the last of the dances wrapping up around half three. Alex, Peter and company enjoyed a few Cuban cigars, blowing liquid smoke rings into the night sky, while the venue staff slowly started to pack up. There was talk of a swim to cool off – had I brought my swimsuit? No, I hadn’t! But that didn’t seem to be a problem. A short pit-stop at Elena’s parents’ house sourced me a pair of trunks and then we found a parking space down by the beach.
Naturally, at half past four in the morning, it was nearly deserted. Just a couple of Greeks listening to trap music over a boombox and a lonely soul sitting on the breakwater and watching the stars.
I’ve never done a night swim before – at least, not in the Mediterranean. I might have gone for a dip after dark with Lucy and Emily many years ago in the summer I left school, but those memories are hazy now – and the cold waters of Whitstable are incomparable to the Aegean. It felt like stepping into a bath. The water was so clean and so clear that I could see all the details of my toes and the ripples in the sand below by the distant lights of the beachfront alone.
My mother used to tell me stories of starlight swimming in the Mediterranean in Barcelona back in the 80s. I’ve clearly been missingout. These beaches are absolutely rammed during the day, but by night you pretty much have the place to yourself, and the water is only slightly less warm. To the Greeks, perhaps, it might have been tepid, but after the chill of the North Sea and the cool waters of the Humboldt Current, it felt incredible. I didn’t feel in the least bit tired, either, though that may have more to do with the fact that I’m almost certainly still on South American time rather than the restorative properties of the Mediterranean Sea.
I slept until noon and waited out the heat of the midday sun in the cool of the apartment. I ummed and ahhed about going up to the Acropolis and ultimately decided I’d be mad to be in Athens and not see its most iconic feature up close. Missing Machu Picchu was… a choice, I’ll admit. But Machu Picchu costs hundreds to see, whereas the Acropolis is a flat 30€. So I packed a bottle of water and set out into the afternoon.
Athens is very quiet around four in the afternoon in August. Most of the city folk are sensibly avoiding the lingering heat. It’s only when you reach Makrigianni Street and the Acropolis Museum that the city suddenly springs to life – with tourists, that is. Germans with peaked caps. Koreans with parasols. Spaniards with GoPros and Americans with sweat-stained XXL tee-shirts and portable fans. All of them defying the 37°C heat to see one of the most famous architectural treasures in the world.
You have to meet your timeslot with these Acropolis tickets, but once you’re in, you can spend as long as you like in the area. The city seems to descend en masse shortly before sunset around 7pm – the lines were immense as I left – so I wouldn’t recommend leaving your visit to the last minute.
With time on my hands, I hunted for cicadas in the olive trees along the path. It wasn’t hard. Once you get your eye in, they’re very easy to spot, despite their cryptic camouflage. You just need to listen closely and look for the little white stripe at the bottom of their abdomen.
Check the trunks from different angles at first as your eyes adjust, because they really can disappear against the surface of the bark. Once you recognise the white stripe, you’ll see them everywhere. I found four on a single trunk by the Sanctuary of Dionysus.
It can be hard to find peace and quiet within the Acropolis complex, as its swarms with tourists at almost all hours of the day. But there are quieter spots. Curiously, the Erechtheion doesn’t get as crowded, despite being directly opposite the Parthenon itself. I suspect many tourists only go up to the great temple itself and then come straight back down.
An olive tree grows in its ruins, in the same spot where the sacred tree that was the symbol of Athena’s gift to her namesake city once stood. A couple of Americans called it a cicada (sick-aider) tree when asked. Two others said they were glad they’d got ChatGPT to give them the lowdown so they didn’t have to hire a guide. I even heard one family – specifically the adults – opine that the only way they could have got a crane inside the Parthenon was by airlifting it into the centre by jet.
Sometimes – just sometimes – I’m extremely grateful that my American adventure ended in heartbreak. Some of the most intelligent people I’ve had the fortune to encounter are from the States, it’s true, but also, some of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard have been said in that American drawl.
I’m always terribly conscious that I’m just another tourist with a smartphone in places like this, so I sat in the shadow of one of the Parthenon’s colossal columns and sketched the temple ruins in my journal. I’d like to think somebody might have sat here doing just that a hundred years ago, and perhaps a hundred years before that, in the time of the Grand Tour, before Apple put a camera into every hand on the planet.
That being said, it is a fantastic place for people watching. So many different people from so many different parts of the world… You could come up here with a sketchbook and spend hours drawing, if you had the time.
The internet seemed to think that wild tortoises might be found around the boulder-strewn path up to the Eptathrono, just opposite the Acropolis. I looked everywhere, but I didn’t find any. I guess I lucked out with the giant tortoises last week, which are – admittedly – a heck of a lot easier to spot. Still – you should always leave something to come back for, right? The view from the top was worth the climb, too.
I’ve made it back to the apartment and have managed to put my feet up at last. I’m quite happy with this afternoon’s adventure. This time tomorrow – for the first time in nearly two months – I’ll be back home in Somerset. All good things come to an end eventually, right? But not before their time – and it really has been a truly wonderful time. The very best of times.
I might post once more tomorrow to hit a 50-day streak. It’s been fun writing every day all summer, but it does help when you have something to write about.
Flight IB0114, somewhere off the west coast of Morocco. 14.01.
For a twelve hour flight, my return journey from Santiago was a lot better than my flight out nearly six weeks ago. My attempt to walk back to Las Condes (ultimately foiled at the unassailable Cruce del Autopista Costanera Norte) had one important side-effect, besides giving me one last Chilean wildlife adventure: it left me absolutely shattered by the time I got into my Uber for the airport. I nearly fell asleep several times in the cab, so when I finally boarded the plane at around half past ten, it wasn’t hard to get some shut-eye, despite having an assigned aisle seat one row from the back of the plane.
Well – I suppose that’s not strictly true. I fought hard to stay awake for the first hour for the sake of supper, but that turned out to be a wasted vigil. Shortly after crossing the Andes, we hit the most terrifying turbulence I have ever experienced on a flight somewhere over Argentina. For all of forty minutes, the plane bucked and rocked like a horse in a rodeo, sending terrifying shockwaves down the aisle and dismantling the dinner service in quite a startling fashion before it had even got going.
I suppose they cancelled supper because by the time we’d got clear of the winds, most of the meals had gone cold. Either way, beyond the very Hispanic juice club forming at the back of the plane, there was no catering for almost the eternity of the flight.
Fortunately, I wasn’t conscious for almost the entirety of the flight, either. I must have slept for at least seven hours, which has got to be a personal record. It helps that I managed to freeze my telescreen by accident only two hours into the flight, preventing me from watching any more movies. The map service on these Iberia flights looks extremely high hi-tech… too much for my poor telescreen. The best I got out of it was an old favourite: Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas.
If you think that’s a childish thing to watch, the businessman on my right spent the latter half of the flight playing Angry Birds.
Before that, he watched all three of the Star Wars sequel films back to back, which I caught snatches of as I drifted in and out of sleep. I only saw the first of them in the cinema when it was released and promptly gave up on them after seeing the hackneyed cash grab that was The Force Awakens. By the looks of things, I didn’t miss out on the last two. What I saw of The Rise of Skywalker was genuinely the most contrived and confusing plot I think I have ever seen. The original Star Wars films didn’t exactly have the most intriguing dialogue, but it did have heart, a clear plot and – most importantly – originality.
Whatever happened to the movie industry? When did profit, special effects and live-action remakes become more important than a good story? I hope we can break free of this creative wasteland we’ve been in for the last decade and more.
That looks like breakfast making its way down the aisle. I hope it finds its way back to row 52 before we land in an hour’s time – I’m famished! BB x
Aeropuerto Internacional Arturo Merino Benítez, Santiago de Chile. 18.40.
Farewells made. Suitcase packed. Rucksack slimmed down to my journal, my camera and a couple of charging devices. Now I’m just waiting in the long line to check in my hold luggage and then – after the inevitable hurdle over my exhaustive middle names – we’re good to go.
With such a late departure, I had time to say a few last goodbyes, so I accompanied Tomás to school for the last time on this trip and sought out Byron, the man behind this whole Chilean exchange idea. I’d managed to miss him on my last day, and I wasn’t about to leave the country without saying thank you to the man who made it all possible.
With that and a few other farewells taken care of, I was done by eleven, so rather than hanging around all day I decided to walk back to Las Condes. The sun was shining, I had my camera on me (just in case) and I thought I’d try to snap some of the birds I’ve seen every day at work but never managed to get on film. I’m pretty sure I want to come back and see Chile again someday, so it’s not the end of the world if I leave a few unfinished tasks, but I did want to seize the chance while the sun was shining. It’s been a rare sight during my stay!
First up: the diuca! This charming slate-grey Chilean chaffinch substitute has been an ever-present companion at work but hard to find beyond the hills around Craighouse, so I’m really happy I managed to find one on the walk down from the school! It’s been bugging me that they’ve been at an arm’s length all the time at school but never when I had my camera on me.
Also: the austral blackbird! No relation to the blackbirds of English parks and gardens, this tremendously noisy South American specialty has been, together with the austral thrush and the meadowlark, part of the soundscape of my morning commute to work.
I saw a few lapwings on the way through the fancier suburbs of Lo Barnechea, but too high up or too far to bother taking the lens out. They still remind me of enormous bats with their bouncy flight, but just like their cousins in England, they’re utterly fearless and will attack anything they perceive as a threat. I’ve even seen them take on buzzard-eagles, which are the second largest creatures of the Andean sky after the condor.
Of course, I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to the mockingbirds. I’ve become especially fond of these extremely characterful creatures, who have been with me from Patagonia to Santiago and even as far as the Galápagos. If I had a house with a garden here in Santiago, I swear I’d try to tame one – and I don’t think it would take an awful lot of effort, either.
Equally, I wouldn’t dream of leaving Chile without saying goodbye to the Lord of the Andes. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. I took a short walk up the slope of Manquehue to see how far I could go, and as I neared the limit (there’s a fence cutting off the road), three condors came soaring into view over its summit. At times they were so close I could see the royal white flush on the upper parts of their mighty wings.
I didn’t take too many photos. I was just happy to watch them for a while.
I have to admit – and this will come as no surprise to anyone who has been following my adventures – this has been the happiest summer of my life. I can’t remember a time when I’ve felt so alive. That’s especially noteworthy because the seemingly endless summer holiday is usually one of the lowest points of the year for me, made tolerable only by dedicating as much of it as I can afford to walking the Camino de Santiago. For those outside the teaching profession, it might seem incredibly ungrateful to bemoan the concept of a nine-week holiday, but for me, it has always gone on far too long.
This summer has been different. Every day has been full of light and wonder, even when it kicked up a blizzard or sent down a thunderstorm. Many years of hard work and boarding school-induced savings have finally given me the chance to do what I could only dream of as a child: to see so much of South America and its incredible wildlife. Sometimes I think I have been mad to shut myself away in a seven-days-a-week job for almost all of my twenties, but if this is what it was building towards… it was worth every lost weekend. Every single one.
On my way back down from Manquehue I saw something coming up the road towards me that I had not expected to see at all: a culpeo. This South American relative of the coyote is only a little larger than a fox, but has something more of the wolf in its face than the bin-raiding reds of London.
And it was trotting up the pavement right towards me, in broad daylight, in a perfectly twee corner of suburban Santiago, without a care in the world.
After a whole week in the Galápagos, where mammals larger than rats are nonexistent, I wasn’t expecting my final South American animal encounter to be anything but the feathered kind. I certainly wasn’t expecting a miniature coyote.
I’ve been bewitched by wolves since my adventures in the frozen forest of Białowieza National Park in Poland two years ago. I’ve still got my eye on another wolf-tracking expedition – this time in Italy – but to see one of their relatives so incredibly close is just one more reminder of how spectacular even the everyday encounters with wildlife in this country can be.
Dammit, not just this country. This whole damn continent.
Traditionally, crossing paths with a fox was considered a bad omen in the Andes. But I don’t see it that way. I’m more inclined to agree with the Japanese, who once revered foxes as auspicious spirits and messengers of the fertility god Inari. In short, like a black cat, they can either be portents of good or ill luck, depending on your point of view.
Fur of gold and silver, eyes of honey brown and feet as silent as the night. How could such a spirit possibly be anything but a good omen?
I had 11.000 Chilean pesos in cash left over in my wallet, so I bought myself a fried chicken sandwich and a pain au chocolat to keep the wolf from the door. After all, in all of my minesweeping adventures around Manquehue today, I completely forgot to have lunch.
The way I see it, a man like me could fall in love with a country like this every single day and lose nothing in the repeated magic of that first infatuation.
I am decided. I have got to come back. I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but I will make it happen. I may need to save up again after the fauna fantasia of this summer, but when it comes around, I want to embrace it all over again.
Happiness like I haven’t known in years. More wildlife than I know what to do with. Mountains that make my heart soar. Condors that make my heart race. And speaking Spanish every day, which keeps my heart beating. Chile has done a number on me and I’m all for it. Honestly – can you blame me? BB x
I’m getting better at sleeping on planes. I must have slept for at least half of the flight from Lima to Santiago, because I remember almost none of it – only the first half hour or so and then a period of ten minutes at some point around half past two in the morning when they served out the in-flight snacks. Even so, the Santiago side of things passed by in a zombie-like blur. I navigated customs and an Uber relatively easily, but after letting myself back into the flat around six in the morning and using the last of my reserves for a desperately needed shave, I tumbled into bed and didn’t wake up again until half past twelve.
I’d suggest that that’s the last time I try to tackle multiple flights across three countries, but that’s exactly what tomorrow’s journey home entails, and I know myself too well to accept that I’d eat my words sooner or later.
What a difference a year makes! South America has gone from being a location on a map that cropped up from time to time in texts we study in class to home in all but name for the last five weeks. By the time I leave tomorrow night, I’ll have totalled nearly six weeks here. That’s half a school term. In my book, four weeks is the cut-off point, beyond which a location stops feeling like a holiday and starts to take on the trappings of a place one can legitimately claim to have lived. While I haven’t spent all six weeks in the Central Valley, Santiago has definitely become as familiar a base as Amman and Tetouan once were, many years ago.
There are many aspects that are still alien. The distance. The exchange rate. The American-style grid system of South American towns. the national insistence on tacking cachai to the end of every single sentence, whether it needed confirmation or not. But I feel I’m getting the hang of the accent, the majority of the modismos (the extremely widespread Chilean slang) and what it might be like to live here for the locals. Lucky them!
It sure is chilly here, though. I haven’t missed the uncomfortable heat I left behind in England back in that first week of July (which, I believe, is still there, outstaying its welcome by well over two months) but I could do with being somewhere warmer for a while. Bouncing from 7°C in Santiago to 37°C in Athens on Friday will be a proper shock to the system, but I’ll have my hands full with this Greek wedding for the ages, so I suppose I’ll manage.
I want to remember this soundscape though. The pitter-patter of dog feet on the laminate flooring. The distant whine of one of Tomás’ sisters blowdrying their hair. The whirring radiator in my room, doing its best to heat up the place. The alarm call of an austral thrush. The faraway engine of one of the many micros plying Avenida Las Condes. Otherwise, the remarkable quiet of Chile’s capital city. Santiago is a very special place.
Popping back into school one last time tomorrow to say a few farewells I didn’t get the chance to make last Friday and to wrap things up with a neat little bow, insofar as I can. And then – home! I could do with a rest. BB x
What an incredible week it’s been! But like all good things, it’s finally come to an end. I’ve made it back to Baltra, not too far from where I was yesterday, and I have a good few hours until my flight departs – the last one of the day. I could have dawdled in Puerto Ayora, but if there’s one thing solo travel has taught me, it’s not to chance the final day, especially when you’re navigating to a place you haven’t been.
Getting to the airport was a cinch. The flat rate for a taxi to the Itabaca Channel is $30, which is per cab, not per head, but as I’m traveling solo, there wasn’t much of a chance of splitting it – and it’s not too much of a price to pay in any event. After that, a single dollar pays your fare across the channel (just get in line under the shelter) and then it’s another $5 for the bus to the airport (which seems non-negotiable – I don’t think you’re allowed to walk it).
All-in, the journey takes about an hour. It’s a pretty small airport, but there are a few shops where you can buy last-minute souvenirs, some snacks for the journey, or grab some final photos of the finches and reptiles that live around the airport. There’s at least one land iguana prowling around that you might see if you’re lucky.
While I’m waiting, I thought I’d run down my ranking for the things I’ve done on this trip, in case you ever consider the same:
✩✩✩✩✩ Punta Pitt ($240)
Easily the best trip on this tour and a very good substitute for Española’s Punta Suarez. Incredible views of all three species of booby, shearwaters, petrels and storm-petrels galore and a superb guide in Samuel Quiroz.
✩✩✩✩ Puerto Baquerizo Moreno (Free)
San Cristobal’s only town is genuinely one of the best places for close encounters with animals of all kinds. Mockingbirds, sea lions, finches, lava herons, noddies, pelicans, iguanas and crabs abound, and I’ve seen both turtles and sharks without even having to leave town. I can’t think of anywhere quite like it.
✩✩✩ North Seymour ($260)
The best destination for observing frigatebirds and land iguanas in the Galapagos for sure. They also chuck in a visit to Playa Las Bachas for flamingoes, turtles and ghost crabs. The only reason it’s not higher on my list was because of the timing. It would probably be near the top spot if we hadn’t gone in the middle of the day.
✩✩ Galapagos Frontier ($35)
A superb spot for seeing the famous giant tortoises, so close to Puerto Ayora that you could get there on foot if you wanted to. The $35 tour doesn’t include the taxi fare there and back ($25) which is worth considering, and holds this back a spot or two.
✩ Kicker Rock ($150)
One of the best diving spots in the world – but perhaps not as legendary for snorkeling. $150 seems a bit steep to see a few fish that you could find just as easily by snorkelling off Cerro Tijeretas, but there are tropicbirds to be seen here, and the turtles at Playa Manglecito more than made up for the snorkeling at the rock itself.
Pouring one out for the trip that never was: Punta Suarez on Isla Española. I’d have sacrificed both Punta Pitt and North Seymour to make that trip happen, but thanks to a malfunction with my tour operator’s onboard motor, it was not to be. At least I got my refund. When I think about it, $260 is a bit steep to see an albatross I’ve already seen, a third species of mockingbird and a shiny version of the marine iguanas – but then, none of the tours on the Galapagos are cheap. It’s set up to be a once-in-a-lifetime sort of destination, so people come here with cash to burn.
I’ll have to find some other way and some other place to see nesting albatrosses. This can’t be the only place in the world. I’m sure we’ll meet again somewhere, someday.
Readjusting to life at home is going to take some time after all of this. It’s been one wildlife spectacular after another this year in an almost unbroken line since my spontaneous trip to Peru in March. It’s been incredible falling back in love with the wild again. I don’t feel so lonely anymore and my general sense of happiness has gone through the roof. How can you be anything but happy when you’re surrounded by nature? I can’t recommend it enough. It’s the perfect antidote to the political and technological nightmare within which we find ourselves these days.
Whatever the problem, you will always find the answer in nature. I firmly believe that.
In total, I’ve spent just shy of $700 on trips and tours. That’s significantly less than I expected, and ridiculously cheaper than taking the liveaboard cruise option which starts at around $3.000. Traveling the Galapagos by yourself absolutely can be done, but if you’re giving it some thought, here’s my advice:
Do inquire about timings of trips and tours if you can, as these do somewhat dictate the success of your tours. Morning hikes are better than afternoon hikes.
Keep an eye out for guides with a III insignia under their badges on their left sleeves – these are park scientists and will be genuine fountains of information.
Be patient with the weather in August. The garúa rain can be disheartening in the morning, but it invariably clears by midday.
Always carry single dollars in paper or coin – you’ll need these more than you think for ferries, launches and helping restaurant staff to break down larger bills.
Don’t trust the prices on the packaging in the mini markets – stuff invariably costs more than what it says because of the cost of importing goods onto the islands.
Share and share alike! Not everybody brings a camera to the islands, so offer to share any photos you take with people on your trip so they can take away some magical memories! I’ve been asked at least three times so there’s clearly a demand for it.
You really don’t need to speak Spanish here as these islands live off the tourist trade, but if you can, please do – it goes such a long way with the locals.
Not too much longer to wait now. I might go and find something to eat. It’s going to be a long and probably rather sleepless night! BB x
My final Galápagos expedition answered a question that’s been bugging me since I landed in Puerto Ayora two days ago: why is it perpetually cloudy here? San Cristobal had its fair share of cloudy days, but – with the exception of a few hours on Wednesday afternoon – Puerto Ayora has been shrouded in a mantle of grey and white from the moment I arrived. Well, I have my answer: rain shadow.
It’s not that the entire island of Santa Cruz gets more cloud than its eastern neighbour. It’s simply that all the cloud cover gets trapped behind the highlands, forcing it to build up over the south side of the island, like Tenerife in reverse. I was worried when we left Puerto Ayora that today would be a washout, but as soon as we cleared the Gemelas sinkholes, we stepped into a shining world of clear skies and tropical sun.
It’s a good thing I brought my sun lotion today.
One thing I’ve learned in my time in the Galápagos is that all of the tours are something of a lottery. You can pay whatever you like, but ultimately it’s the park rangers who dictate who has access and when. Sometimes you get lucky and get the best light of the day (before 11am) – and sometimes you don’t. Today was the latter. Beach first, hike last. It’s definitely the inferior of the two options, for at least three good reasons:
Animals are a lot more active in the earlier hours of the day. As the midday heat approaches, both birds and reptiles become a lot more reclusive to get out of the heat
Taking a dip in the Pacific feels a lot nicer (and a lot more earned) after stomping around for an hour or two under the sun
The midday lighting with the sun dead overhead isn’t exactly the optimal condition for photography, especially for dark subjects like frigatebirds
In short, I was a bit miffed when we were allocated a visit to Las Bachas first – not least of all because North Seymour is one of the more expensive day trips on offer (at around $260-300 at the cheaper end). In most other parts of the world, when you’re paying that much for a day trip, you usually get some kind of say as to how to work the itinerary.
The Galápagos are different – and I suspect that the tourism explosion of the last ten years or so has had a lot to do with that. The upside is that the system has the animals’ welfare at its heart – or so I’d like to believe anyway. Controlling the daily tourist visits allows the park rangers to set limits on disturbance to the native fauna, which can only be a good thing.
Rant over. Let’s get back to some good old-fashioned awe, wonder and nature writing.
First off, whether you’re visiting in the morning of the afternoon, Playa Las Bachas is a genuine haven. After days of choppy seas, finding a calm white sand beach like El Manglecito was a major treat. Once occupied by US troops to control access to the Panama Canal during WWII, the only patrols you’ll find there now are the ghost crabs that race up and down the beach, forming enormous collections of tiny spitballs as they sift through the sand for microscopic food washed up by the tide.
I’ve only seen Sally Lightfoots since I got here (and one crab that liked a lot more like the ones we have back home), so seeing so many of these beautiful ghost crabs was a major highlight.
One species I was nearly prepared to cough up another $150 to seek out was hanging around a small lagoon behind the sand dunes. The American flamingo is the fourth and final flamingo species in the Americas, meaning the only flamingo in the world that I have yet to see is the lesser flamingo of sub-Saharan Africa and west India. I thought you’d have to go all the way to neighbouring Isabela, the largest of the Galápagos Islands, to be in with a chance of finding one of these colourful creatures, but there’s a small colony here at Las Bachas that regularly puts in an appearance.
Bypassing Isabella means I leave without seeing two iconic Galápagos species: the penguin and the flightless cormorant. However, to even have a chance at seeing the latter, you need to skip the day trips and take a cruise that explores the westernmost islands, where the elusive flightless cormorant can be found – and that can cost upwards of $4,000 before factoring in the enormous financial handicap that applies to all single travellers.
On that note, seriously, what gives? Since touchdown last Saturday I’ve met just two other solo travelers here. The rest are couples, families or groups of retirees. If you get to talking with them, a great many of them are lawyers, bankers, hedge fund managers and businessmen. I feel very out of place as a teacher here. Whatever it might once have been, the Galápagos does seem to have become a rich man’s playground.
Thank goodness the only riches in this world that matter are the ones that were living and breathing on these islands long before people came here.
I saw another two turtles at Las Bachas before we got back on the zodiac and returned to our boat, the Galapagos Shark. The crossing to North Seymour is substantially shorter than, say, the journey to Punta Pitt, but you have to go it slow in these waters, as there are so many turtles about. While the other passengers stretched out on the forecastle, I stayed up on deck watching the shearwaters and storm-petrels dancing across the surface of the water behind us.
North Seymour Island is a strange place. Under the right conditions, I would go so far as to say that it might even be eerie. A forest of dead-looking trees. Golden grass on a slab of sun-scorched rock, where the boulders come to life before your eyes and take the shape of gigantic land iguanas, lumbering across the path like miniature dinosaurs, while pterodactyl-esque frigatebirds cast enormous shadows as they hang in the wind. It’s worth coming to this place if only because it’s so different to everywhere else.
The big draw of North Seymour is its huge colony of frigatebirds. These aerial pirates can be found all over the Galápagos Islands, but they have their primary stronghold here off the coast of Baltra. More than a thousand pairs breed here each year, accompanied by thousands more juveniles, making North Seymour probably the best place in the world to see these magnificent creatures up close.
Both great and magnificent frigatebirds can be found here. The difference between the two is only slight, but easily appreciated in the sunlight: male great frigatebirds have a green sheen on their shoulders, whereas magnificent frigatebirds’ shoulder feathers shine a glossy purple.
This is also a spectacular place to see the males inflating their famous throat sacs to attract the attention of passing females. We’re quite late into the breeding season, so this wasn’t as common a sight today as it was a month ago, but I did hear and see a few males displaying a fair distance from the path.
Frigatebirds are far and away my favourite birds of the Galápagos. They may be one of the easier creatures to spot – they were the first animals I saw as the plane came in to land and I am quite sure they will be the last I see, too – but that does not detract in the slightest from their magnificence.
I caught myself thinking more than once that if I ever got a tattoo (Ed.: I won’t), I would consider the silhouette of one of these beautiful creatures. I seem to be drawn to the vultures of the animal kingdom, even where there are no vultures. Or perhaps it’s the fact that these aerial pirates are effectively feathered bandits – and I have always had a thing for bandits. I very nearly wrote my undergraduate dissertation on bandits.
One of the best things about the Galapagos is that the animals’ lack of fear allows you to witness the kind of behaviour that normally goes unnoticed. This youngster called its mother to it and, after much high-pitched pleading, convinced her to disgorge her catch so that it could eat.
Frigatebirds aside, I finally managed to track down a Galápagos endemic: the Galapagos Dove. These tiny cousins of the Peruvian doves must have been blown onto these islands millions of years ago, adapting into the colourful, rock-patterned creatures you can see today. They avoid towns and cities, so to have a chance of finding them you have to search the more remote corners of the inhabited islands.
So far I’ve managed to neglect the other star of North Seymour: the land iguanas that have made this island their home since they were extirpated from Baltra. Only the males have the distinctive sandy-orange colouration – the females are a more uniform grey in colour.
Before we left, a scuffle in the rocks sent one of the females scurrying across the path and into the shadows of the cliff. Her spook, the alpha male, followed her only as far as the path before stopping to cast a languid and uncaring eye in our direction.
These land iguanas look a lot more like their green cousins back on the mainland than their hyperspecialised marine cousins with whom they share the island. A younger me would have come to the islands purely for the iguanas. I was hugely into reptiles back then. I eventually became more interested in birds, partly because the UK doesn’t exactly have a thriving population of reptiles. So it was nice to embrace my inner child today and binge on some spectacular reptiles.
I spent my last afternoon in Santa Cruz down by the mangrove-lined fisherman’s wharf watching the pelicans. There is always bycatch to be had and so both pelican and frigatebird gather at the right time of day to pick up the scraps left out for them by the fishermen.
Like so many gringos, I’m just a visitor to these islands: here to see one of nature’s greatest marvels before returning to my normal life far across the sea. But these galapagueños spend their entire lives surrounded by these beautiful creatures: pelicans, turtles, frigatebirds, mockingbirds, sea lions, marine iguanas, giant tortoises and Sally Lightfoot crabs are as much a part of their everyday as house sparrows and pigeons are for us. That’s absolutely mind-boggling for me, but it’s only a different reality. No wonder the rangers are so defensive of their greatest treasure.
Tomorrow, I have to make my way back up to Baltra to catch my flight back to Guayaquil, then on to Santiago via a layover in Lima. It’s a fairly long-winded flight, but the real question is how to get to the airport as a single traveler. I might end up taking a taxi to the Itabaca channel, as it’s set at $25 and I did just find a secret stash of dollars that I forgot I had (I’m very good at hiding my cash in different places for safety’s sake and then forgetting where I put it).
My adventures are nearly over. It’s been a long summer. It’s going to sound odd, but I could use a holiday. Traveling solo means being switched on all the time, even when you’re laid out on a tropical beach. The Galápagos is neutral territory, but there is no place like home. I’m looking forward to a little peace of mind – but that is still some ten days away. The journey continues! BB x
Coming all the way to the Galápagos Islands and leaving without seeing the giant tortoises would be like going to Jordan and skipping out on Petra, or bypassing any kind of safari whatsoever on a visit to Kenya or Tanzania. You could do it, but you’d be missing out on something truly special.
As luck would have it, you don’t have to go too far to find them. Though they may not be as numerous as they once were long ago (an astonishing 350,000 were carried off the islands by sailors and scientists as a source of food and oil), there are still thousands of them to be found even on the populated islands of San Cristóbal and Santa Cruz. The ranches in the interior will give you your best chance at seeing them, but don’t get it confused: they’re not open-air zoos built to accommodate the surviving giant tortoises. They’re functioning orchards and pastoral plots that happen to sit right on the tortoises’ migration route to and from the clouded highlands. The fact that they provide a ready supply of fruit is simply one of the reasons they can often be found lurching around the ranches.
I was picked up from my hostal at about 8.42 by a slightly irascible taxi driver. On the way out of town, I couldn’t help noticing a dollar store selling all sorts of cheap plastic tat: brainrot bracelets, a K-Pop Demon Hunters make-up kit, imitation night goggles from Lilo and Stitch and a plastic figurine of Haaland. For an island that makes such a big deal about not importing single-use plastics, there’s a lot of single-use plastic junk on sale here for locals and tourists alike. I hope one day we learn to stop mass-producing stuff like this and give capitalism one almighty sock in the jaw, though I doubt that will happen in my lifetime.
My destination today was Galápagos Frontier, the closest accessible ranch to Puerto Ayora. I was going to walk there, but when the heavens opened shortly after seven o’clock, I decided to take up the ranch owner’s offer of a taxi shuttle and save myself the hour and a half’s hike. By the looks of things, it would have been a pretty straightforward route, as a separate cycle lane follows the highway right into the interior, but it did allow me to slow down and enjoy my breakfast, so I guess I was grateful.
The taxi driver dawdled a bit, so he made up for lost time by hurtling along the highway, narrowly missing a couple of chickens and a very fleeting glimpse of a pachay – the Galápagos crake, a rare and endemic cousin of the moorhen that came to these islands over a million years ago. It was some relief when he finally slowed down near the ranch gates, because I don’t like to think what would have happened if we’d met a giant tortoise around the bend.
Speaking of which, I counted at least three of the lumbering giants before we’d even arrived. At four feet tall by five feet across, they’re pretty hard to miss.
Our guide, Julio César (ave!), had a lot to tell us about the ranch and its flora and fauna, so he brought along a Canadian volunteer to translate for him, as the American mother and son on our trip didn’t speak any Spanish. We butted heads a bit over travel advice for Peru as the young American fella was headed there next. She recommended Paracas and Huacachina as her highlight. I told him I’d managed Paracas in a day and she said I was “fucking insane”, which seemed an odd sort of way to talk to a client, but… that’s North Americans for you. No filter. I gave them a wide berth for the rest of the tour and stuck close to Julio, bypassing the need to speak in English for the rest of the morning.
It’s only a small boundary of mine, but I don’t take kindly to being sworn at without uttermost provocation. Priggish, perhaps, but it’s a principle I try to stick to.
Anyway. I wasn’t here to hang out with tourists. I came up here to see the giant tortoises. And see them I did.
I’ve always known they’re incredibly long-lived creatures, but just how long has never really dawned on me. Some of these tortoises were well over a hundred years old, with at least one or two individuals over the one-hundred-and-fifty mark. Julio showed us the sun-bleached shell of a male he had found dead on the ranch at the start of the tour, adding that it was the only such cadaver he’d found in forty years working this corner of the island. That statistic alone hints at the ridiculous surviving power of these creatures, whose metabolism is so slow that they can go for as long as a year without food or drink.
Turtles may have been around since the Triassic in one form or another, but these giants really are reminiscent of the age of the dinosaurs in their almost miraculous longevity.
You can age a giant tortoise by their shells. Younger tortoises have more clearly defined grooves in their shells, which wear away with age. Ironically, the fewer the lines, the older they are. So it stands to reason that some of these tortoises individuals we saw – like the one below – were incredibly old. Old enough to have seen two world wars come and go. Old enough to remember a time before tourism on the islands. And with the record age in captivity pushing 174 years, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that one or more tortoises on the islands remember a young Charles Darwin who came here in 1835.
I don’t know about you, but I found that absolutely mind-boggling.
Many of the tours on the ranches include a visit to the lava tunnels, a labyrinthine network of caves hollowed out of the mountain by ancient rivers of molten rock, long since cooled and emptied. Near the coast, these are the preferred burrows of the Galápagos penguin, but up here in the highlands, they’re more commonly used as roosts for barn owls and the three endemic bat species that call the islands home.
The most amazing thing about the lava tunnels – apart from the fact that they seem to go on forever – is the way their ceilings sparkle and gleam in the torchlight. Thousands of water droplets and bacteria scintillate in silver and gold, making the long dark of the tunnels alive with light.
Back up and out in the light, we were tailed for a short distance by a flock of anis. These cuckoo/crow-like birds aren’t native to the Galapagos but were brought here from the mainland in the 70s to deal with the horsefly problem blighting the highland ranches. Now they’re everywhere, attacking much of the native wildlife, so every few years the local community organises a major cull of the species to keep their numbers in line.
It doesn’t help that they’re actually a very endearing kind of bird. This sort of job is much easier when the culprit is small, faceless and preferably creepy-crawly.
Living and working in Santiago this summer has, at times, felt decidedly European. You’re never under any allusion that you’re in an entirely different hemisphere, but all the same, the roads and the streets are very western, very cosmopolitan. Up in the highlands of the Galápagos, there’s something very… equatorial about the place. One-storey houses at the roadside with chalkboards selling fruit. Red earth roads leading into the distance with thick green vegetation on either side. Tarmac roads without pavements or bollards. It almost feels like being back in Uganda.
With the vegetation so high at this time of year (following the daily rains), it can be hard to encounter a giant tortoise that isn’t buried up to its neck in greenery. So I was glad to find at least one by the roadside that was wandering out in the open. It can be hard to gauge their size when they’re on their own, but if I told you that their shells can reach a man’s waist or even abdomen in the very largest specimens, that may give you an idea.
It’s been quite a wild ride, this summer, and spending the last few days with the giant tortoises of the Galápagos seems like a nice way to wind down what has been a total blur of events since I left the UK to burn under the unforgiving summer sun of July 2026. It’s still burning now. In South America we’ve had rain almost every day here since I arrived. If only I could send some of it back to Europe ahead of my return. Folk might welcome it there.
A week from today, I will be in Athens, on what really will be the last of my labours for the summer. I had originally planned to make my own way home across Europe after that, but then the Galapagos happened, so I’m going to save both money and time and come back to the UK when the wedding festivities are over to edit my photos and rest. Lord knows I could do with the comfort of my own bed and books again.
But before that, I have one final Galápagos adventure upon which I must embark: the frigatebird colony of North Seymour Island. I hope the weather is kind on this last expedition. BB x
This morning I said farewell to San Cristóbal. The easternmost island of the Galápagos chain has been a blissful retreat from the world, shrouded in stormclouds and sunshine. Having a cabin all to myself on the edge of town made a change from the usual hostel circuit. After several years of bunk beds of varying stages of comfort, I think I earned it.
I arrived a full forty-five minutes early at the harbour, as instructed, to be last in the queue. I should have known: the majority of the tourists on these islands at the moment are Dutch, Germans and Americans, who aren’t known for being slack when it comes to appointments. As such, when I finally did get onto the ferry, I was given a seat at the very front of the boat.
The Israeli sitting next to me was incensed. “Shit, man. This fucking sucks. These are the worst seats in the whole boat.” I smiled and shrugged it off – windowless or not, it was only a two hour boat trip across the open ocean – but he was seriously ticked off about what he saw as the rank injustice of the affair.
Fortunately, due to a mix-up involving the unexpected arrival of a family of four, the captain asked if we’d be so kind as to move up on deck so the family could sit together – so I effectively got an upgrade for free. So did the Israeli, whose response was a lot more vainglorious than mine, but I guess it takes all sorts to make a world. Up top, I had the refreshing breeze of the ocean wind, the occasional spray of saltwater and views all around – and, unlike a number of passengers, I wasn’t sick once. For somebody who isn’t exactly a sailor, I have always been surprised at my resistance to seasickness. Surprised – and very grateful!
The ferry between San Cristóbal and Santa Cruz takes about two hours, passing the uninhabited island of Santa Fé shortly before docking in Puerto Ayora, the largest town in the Galápagos. It was only shortly after nine, so I had a quick breakfast and then thought I might at least check in my luggage, but the lovely ladies at my hostal, the Flightless Cormorant, let me into my room right away. With my rucksack unpacked, I set out to explore and get my bearings of Puerto Ayora.
As they always are in the Americas, the fisherman’s wharf is a hive of activity. In Valparaiso, it draws gulls, terns, pelicans and the local sea lion population right up to the harbour. Here in the Galapagos, the frigatebirds add some local colour. They almost never seem to land, and the reason for that became clear when I saw one resting on the roof of a boat: their feet are tiny, almost vestigial in appearance. It seems that this was the sacrifice they made millions of years ago in order to become masters of the air, just like our swifts back home in Europe, only more than five times the size.
Here, as on San Cristóbal, you can find lava herons, with the added touch that the mangrove trees make for a slightly more interesting backdrop. The mangroves are easily my favourite thing about Santa Cruz – I’ve only ever seen them in books and documentaries, and they are every bit as spectacular as I always thought – even here, where they start right in the heart of Puerto Ayora itself.
Obviously my turtle encounter yesterday wasn’t enough, because a short burst of breath near the boats alerted my attention to a youngster drifting near the surface, less than a stone’s throw from the harbour. It was feeding on the algae growing on the bottom of the boats, particularly on the propellers raised just inches above the surface. The Galápagos Islands are famous for the close encounters you can have with the local wildlife, but I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting to see both sharks and turtles without even having to leave the larger towns.
One of the big draws in Puerto Ayora is the Charles Darwin Research Centre to the east of the city. Free to visit – except for the Fausto Llerena Giant Tortoise breeding centre, which is perilously easy to stumble into (and be politely removed from) as it has no fencing! – it is worth a look-around even if just for the passport stamp you can acquire here, the only legitimate way to obtain such a stamp (as they do not issue any stamps at the airport).
The walk there takes you into the wilder country around Puerto Ayora, and you have to watch your feet: there are reptiles everywhere. I lost count of the lava lizards and marine iguanas, and I’m almost certain I saw the looped body of a Galápagos snake disappear into the bushes as I turned a corner.
Follow the trail that leads east of the Charles Darwin Research Centre and you’ll reach Playa Ratonera, a wild and wave-battered volcanic shoreline. It has a few sandy stretches, but it’s hardly a pleasure beach, as it gets the full force of the Pacific. It’s mostly mangroves, carpet weed and black volcanic boulders, with the shattered white remnants of millions of years of coral taking the place of pebbles.
One huge draw is the local population of marine iguanas. There were always a few around the harbour on San Cristóbal, but Santa Cruz has hundreds of them.
The collective noun for marine iguanas is a mess, which is about right. They are absolutely everywhere, sprawling all over each other on the path, off the path, among the weeds and atop the rocks. You really do have to watch where you step, because they’re a lot more sluggish than the lava lizards and don’t tend to move even when they’re only inches away.
They were attended by a massive great blue heron, the American cousin of our grey herons. Herons of this size have a Catholic diet, so I imagine the smaller iguanas form a part of that, before they become too large for even the most ambitious herons. I’ve seen these birds swallow fish that are far too large for their long necks, but they probably do go down the hatch a lot more easily than a spiky, scaly adult iguana.
Time and again here I am bowled over by how unafraid the local wildlife is of us. Herons, iguanas, mockingbirds, finches, boobies and oystercatchers… none of them seem to mind one jot that they share their world with us. Only the whimbrels seem to have retained their wariness, though given their status as migrants in these islands, perhaps their behaviour may be excused.
The other beach worth visiting in Puerto Ayora’s immediate area is Playa Tortuga, a stretch of exposed white sand to the southwest. Getting there requires registering with a park ranger and a half hour’s trek through the opuntia cactus forest, but when you see the final destination, you’ll understand why so many people both local and foreign make this trek every day. It’s a paved route, so it’s not exactly arduous, and it does have the benefit of sending you through bird country. I finally saw the largest of the ground finches, with its impressively large nutcracker bill, as well as the local species of mockingbird, noticeably different in voice and appearance to the birds on San Cristóbal.
I believe Playa Tortuga is so named because it plays host to a breeding colony of green turtles at the right time of year, but to get there, you first have to cross Playa Brava, beaten savagely by the force of the ocean. When I got there the afternoon’s daytrippers were all heading back to town in a slow and sandy procession. The rangers close the beach at five, so as I arrived at twenty past four, I didn’t have an awful lot of time.
Time enough, though, to appreciate the strange beauty of the mangroves. On the far side of the red flag beach (where the waves are far too strong to allow for bathing) you’ll find the not-so-secret mangrove-lined bay of Playa Tortuga. It’s no hyperbole to say that it is by far the most beautiful beach in the Galapagos that I’ve seen so far: quiet, secluded and with views to die for all around.
I didn’t bring my swimming gear, and it would have been too late to pop in for a swim even if I had, but it was a hard-fought temptation not to dive right in. I confess I usually have more than a little contempt for those who travel the world just to lounge around on a beach without a care for the local wildlife or culture, but when the beaches are this good, I can begin to understand why somebody might be mad enough to empty their bank account to be in a place like this.
If you walk just a little bit further, you can see the entire bay with the mountains behind from a rocky peninsula, where the opuntia cactus grows. Tomorrow I’ll head up into those highlands in search of giant tortoises, but for now, it’s just me, the sea and the pufferfish swimming among the rocks below me.
I’ll close this post here – I had a lot more to report than I thought today. Maybe tomorrow will be a quieter one! BB x
