In yet another ineffectual effort to put some order into my bookshelf I came upon one of my favourite books of all time, The Worst Journey in the World, by Apsley Cherry-Garrard (1886 -1959).
This is an account of Robert Falcon Scott’s ill-fated expedition to discover the South Pole in 1911, written by the youngest member of the team, who was just 24 at the time. A memoir, in a completely immersive style, by someone who had never written a book before, nor wrote another in his entire life.
I came upon the book by chance many years ago, browsing in the wonderful Heffers bookshop in Cambridge. Just the cover of the hardback, the shape and heft and compact size of the wonderful Picador Travel Classics edition and I was sold. I bought the thing as an object, but then I started reading it and became hooked on the subject and, most unlikely for me, Polar exploration in general.
The old-fashioned, unreal feel of the whole organisation, the details and lists of supplies and packing, the endless debates of dogs versus ponies versus men hauling the sleds. Why would anyone want to put themselves through such an ordeal, but in fact, many did. They vied to get on the expedition crew. They felt it was heroic and, being British, even more heroic to combine the race to the South Pole with scientific projects such as geologising, which meant carrying about bags of rock samples, as well as going on a winter trip in the middle of the endless dark of the Antarctic winter (the Worst Journey in the title) in order to collect Emperor penguin eggs from their impossible to reach breeding grounds. Cherry was one of three men who went on that little pleasure trip, and it is a miracle how they survived, especially since their tent was blown away in a storm one night.
In fact it was a miracle any of them survived, because they had miscalculated the supplies and equipment needed. Scott and his team of four all died, from scurvy and cold and hunger, having faced the most bitter of disappointments. They had lost the race—finally arriving at their destination to find the Norwegian flag already planted there. Because of course, Roald Amundsen had no interest in penguins or rocks. He and his team were highly skilled on skis and used dogs to pull the sleds and got there in a ruthlessly efficient manner, five weeks before Scott. They also had a better diet of fresh meat and so did not suffer from scurvy.
Both Amundsen and, more importantly, Scott’s wife, learned of his death more than a year later, which in our era of instant communications, seems weirdly shocking.
There have been many books written on polar exploration, about the exploits of Amundsen and Shackleton and others. I have read quite a few and watched films, especially the 1985 seven-part series called The last place on Earth. I find it all quite fascinating, more so since it is something I would never dream of attempting myself. I think it amazing that still, especially now that there is nothing left to ‘discover’, there are people still doing it—such as Sir Rannulph Fiennes, who, amongst other expeditions, was the first person to visit both the North Pole and the South Pole by surface means and the first to completely cross Antartica on foot.
Be that as it may, the book is engrossing and will make you travel into a different world. What is particularly interesting is the minutiae of daily life and the relationships between the men facing such difficult conditions. Highly recommended.
Letters from Athens 