Whenever I’m in a bus or taxi here, waiting at a crossing, and a car pulls up alongside us, a lone driver patiently waiting for the lights to change, I am so jealous of them I want to wrench them out of the driving seat, jump in and drive, goodness knows where. My car is a slice of personal space, of autonomy, me-time. Here I am never further away from Clive than a King penguin and it’s baby. I don’t miss my garden at all, as it’s November and is probably under water; instead of pruning my roses, I tend Clive’s eyebrows. But boy, do I miss my car.

Since we’ve been in Patagonia, where ropes are strung between lamposts so you can cling on to them rather than be tossed rolling down the street like tumble weed, I have worn the same clothes for two weeks, maybe longer now – black action pants, t-shirt, snug, coat, thick socks, walking boots, woolly hat, gloves +/- thermals.

We stay for such short times in hotels I can’t face opening my suitcase, putting on make-up, taking it off, wearing jewellery, getting out my pj’s, moisturising, brushing my hair. My face is reptilian, wizened, dry and scaly from the wind and cold; my legs hairier than a baboons. I draw the line at not cleaning my teeth; even baboons have standards. It’s 90% liberating and 10% unhinging to be so free of any aesthetic concerns. Our waistlines, despite us being much fitter, are no thinner as our diet here, born of late night arrivals and early morning starts, centres around croissants, bread, crisps, chocolate, beer and fanta orange. I know “No friday night feeling!” is the complaint of some retirees, but the opposite can also be true – every day is a Friday.

We’ve gone feral.

King Penguins.

King penguins don’t care what I look or smell like. It is difficult, as we peer through our binocs off the coast of Terra del Fuego, not to attribute human feelings to them. A large wobbling ball of brown feathers shuffles alongside their smaller parent squawking up a storm, beak wide open, never more than 3 mm away, and as they gently peck him on top of his head to get him to give it a rest his head keeps popping back up, beak ever wider, squawks ever louder. A nice little metaphor for parenthood right there. They are 10 months old and in a few weeks will moult and be sea-bound, and on their own. Only around 60% of them will survive to breed. There will be about a weeks gap and then their parent will have a new pregnancy on the go. Brutal.

Ushuaia.

Defies expectations.

I am always struck by the difference between my expectations of a place I’ve never seen and the reality, as they rarely match (Santiago, I’m looking at you.) I thought Ushuaia would be a cruise terminal with a few scattered tourist offices, restaurants and hotels, teetering on the end of the world like the bus in The Italian Job. It turns out it’s a vibrant, smart, port town that caters for skiers in the winter and cruises in the summer, with an alpine vibe, timbered restaurants, expensive adventure gear shops, weather that turns on a sixpence from blinding bright sunlight to sleeting snow, and a bone-chilling wind blowing up the Beagle Channel straight from the Antarctic.

Ear wigging.

Eavesdropped gossip on our journey down, which involved our fourth passage through border control between Chile and Argentina, is that everything in Ushuaia is fully booked. Not to be disheartened, we decided on arrival to walk down to the office and try our luck.

Perseverance pays off.

We strike gold, booking one of the last penguin viewing slots that probably hasn’t shown up on-line. The English couple in front of us booked this 3 months ago and are only here to pay, but a Frenchman who did this has discovered that because he didn’t pay on-line, he’s lost his place. We’re all trying to pay upfront in cash, as it costs a third as much than if you pay on-line in dollars, but even more if you book it through a tour operator. Pirator is the only place in Ushuaia that has a licence to let people set foot on the penguin island, and they are only allowed to take 80 people a day in 4 groups. We also have to pay for a separate boat trip on a different day, which Clive is very sniffy about but it turns out to be tremendous, with several birds we’ve never seen before, including a blackish cinclodes:

They only ever come onto the boat at the lighthouse, to drink the fresh water that lies in puddles on the deck. A rather non-descript looking bird, nevertheless it is almost extinct and can only be seen in the Beagle Strait and The Falklands.

Be afraid.

We watch as a Southern giant petrel drowns a seagull and then eviscerates it to feed on its innards. There’s something psychopathic about this – you expect to see birds fighting in the skies, perhaps to the death, but the petrel just sits on the bird in the sea until it drowns. It turns out drowning your prey isn’t unique to petrels, as orcas do it too, lying on top of a whale’s blow hole so it suffocates; then it eats only the lips and tongue. Nature, red in tooth and claw.*

The boat takes us really close to a colony of cormorants and seals. Seals are coming up to mating season, the time for a lot of argy bargy when settled alpha males fight off young upstarts hoping to steal some of his harem of 20 or so females.

New Forest mud maestros.

The next day we’re walking to the Emerald lake behind Ushuaia, yet another glacial lake and hobbit walk through dense, dark woods, river beds, gnarly paths, steep climbs, but with the added thrill of mud, mud, glorious mud. I feel we are mud maestros, having walked in it, through it, over it with kids, dogs and grandma’s for 25 years in The New Forest – we know mud. And so it proves. We can hear the cries of laughter as groups get stuck sinking thigh deep into the infamous bog as we take the firm left hand side by the river, gratifyingly overtaking them all. (No-one dies).

I don’t know if it’s the altitude we have been at and all the walks we’ve been doing but we fly up to the lake and back, and when we share a taxi back to Ushuaia with a Canadian he jokes that we beat everyone on our bus, most of them under 40. Except him. Competitive – moi?

When a man is tired of penguins, he’s tired of life.

Below – penguins oiling their feathers on Martello island.

On our last day we visit Martello island to walk among Gentoo and Magellanic penguins, and one stray King penguin. It’s a peaceful place buffeted by a gentle breeze around 20 minutes by rib from Harberton Estancia, a sheep ranch owned by an English family for 150 years. The farm was the first estancia (ranch) built on Tierra del Fuego in 1886.

Photos above show the estancia loo, sensibly placed I feel, then a barn oozing history and dust, and lastly Clive by the rib that took us to Martello island.

No selfies and no coughing.

Our guide gives us strict instructions about staying 3 metres away from them, not poking them with a selfie stick or breathing near them. Avian flu is on the rise and they absolutely do not want it here. Some of the Magellan penguins didn’t get the memo though, and stand in our way on the path. There’s quite a few small children in our group and I am surprised by how good they are, even the toddlers tiptoing silently around the penguin who doesn’t seem bothered by us (they are very shortsighted out of the water).

Monogamous penguins.

The Magellan penguins are here year round and are monogamous on a yearly basis, and as they are currently breeding, we can see one or other parent down in their hole on the egg/s while the other is at sea feeding or oiling themselves down on the beach to stay sleak in the water.

Romance very much alive in penguin world.

The Gentoos arrive every October to mate. The 2-3 year old males display their worthiness by presenting single females with their best stone, rubbed smooth by the sea, to lay on their future nest. They lay their eggs on a pile of bricks as they think they’re on ice although they’re not; it’s touching to see their mate hovering near the nest, gently tucking in a stray feather here and a bit of fern there under their mates bottom to keep the eggs snug.

Next stop a Welsh colony – and some whale watching.

We are now heading North for some whale and dolphin watching in Puerto Madryn on the east coast, plus a spot of Welsh breakfast. It’s 25 degrees, apparently, which I just cannot imagine.

*Tennyson.