The End of the World...

Day 24-27: Ushuaia, Argentina. Karen shouted something to me, but against the howling wind, I couldn't really make out her words. Our faces were stinging from the driving sleet and snow, our bodies numb from the cold and our muscles tired from the 3,000ft climb – but it didn't matter in the slightest. We were standing on the top of the highest mountain range in Tierra del Fuego on the edge of the Martial Glacier looking down on the quaint little port of Ushuaia, the Beagle Channel, the tiny Isla Navarino and the dark, foreboding Southern Ocean. We were at the very edge of the South American continent at the most southerly town on the planet - a mere 600 miles from the Antarctica. There was nowhere else to go. We were literally at el Fin del Mundo – The End of the World.

We had made good progress during the first three weeks of our adventure, having travelled almost two and a half thousand miles across Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay. That said, we were still less than halfway to the southernmost point on our trip and with the onset of the southern hemisphere winter just around the corner, we knew we had to get a move on if we we were to reach The Island of Fire before she was yet again encased in her frozen mantle of ice and snow.

As the eighth largest country in the world Argentina truly is a giant - stretching almost from the Tropic of Capricorn in the north to within 10 degrees of the Antarctic Circle in the south; a fact that suddenly became very apparent to us as we disembarked our flight at Malvinas Argentinas International Airport.

Making the hour long ferry trip across the River Plate to Argentina's capital, we boarded a southbound plane in Buenos Aires in 30 degrees of sunshine. By the time we had completed the three and a half hour flight we were plunged into the middle of a Fuegan summer where the hottest days struggle to make 10 degrees and midsummer snow storms driven straight from the Antarctic continent are the rule rather than the exception.

Despite the cold and the remoteness though, Ushuaia is a busy little port. Originally developed as a penal colony in the late 19^th Century, the town has gone from strength to strength during the last 120 years; fuelled by a massive explosion in tourism. For this part of Patagonia attracts just about every kind of tourist you can possibly imagine: The wealthy on their cruise ships, ecologists and environmentalists bound for the Antarctic continent, the Gortex brigade looking to experience some of the best hiking in the world, real ale buffs wanting to drink the local tipple in the world's most southerly pub, petrol heads ending (or beginning) their mammoth 12,000 mile journey from Alaska on the Pan-American highway, independent travellers, wildlife enthusiasts, the ski set, mountaineers, extreme sport thrill seekers... the list goes on and on.

And for Karen and me, this was bliss. For the last three weeks, we had lugged thermal underwear, fleeces, boots and waterproof clothing across the tropics but now, dressed in our winter wardrobe to protect ourselves from the biting southern winds, we spent our time trekking the beautiful Parque Nacional Tierra del Feugo with its pristine lakes, forests and snow-capped mountains.

Our trip to the Argentina's southern most extremity, also gave us the opportunity to realise that that thing over the Falkland Islands back in '82 hasn't been a case of 'forgive and forget'. Back in the north, we had an inkling of this, when at the end of January the UK decided to send Prince William to the serve in the South Atlantic. Hardly reported by the UK media, this story has been front page news in Argentina for over a week now with TV news constantly showing archive images of the 'British aggressor' firing in anger against the Argentinian navy and downing their Super Etendard jet fighters. But in Ushuaia, it got a little bit more personal: Argentina's half of Tierra el Fuego is officially part of Las Islas Malvinas, the islands that Argentina claim the Falklands belong to. And if you look at any government maps down here you will see that the Falklands and South Georgia are both designated as Argentinian territory. In the main port a huge official sign in two foot high letters showed a picture of a crossed out Union Flag declaring “No Berthing Here for British Pirate Ships”. Another massive sign on a plate glass window of a municipal building in the centre of town showed the islands cut out against the background of the Argentinian flag with the words “Go Home – They're Argentina's”.

“Perhaps you should cover your rucksack”, Karen suggested. I looked at the huge union jack emblazoned all across the back of my pack and nodded quickly in agreement.