Dear Earthlings, it is I, Xylb’tok, your ever increasingly weary Martian correspondent, writing to you from somewhere delightfully cold, spectacularly peaceful and carrying a name that appears to have been chosen by someone with an exceptionally optimistic understanding of colours. After 73 weeks of chronicling the circus you insist on calling politics, with only one short break, I decided enough was enough. Even Martians occasionally require annual leave. Admittedly, Earthlings, you remain my favourite soap opera, but the increasingly exhausting antics of Agent Orange have left even my antennae beginning to curl at the ends.
So I quietly slipped away to somewhere that appears to have borrowed its colour palette from the inside of a Martian freezer. I have searched high and low for the green. Thus far I have found white. Quite a lot of blue. A respectable amount of grey. Even the occasional pink sunset that reminds me fondly of home. Green, however, remains remarkably elusive.
Perhaps it appears for 15 minutes every July before politely disappearing again. If so, I have missed it. Still, the scenery is magnificent, the air is gloriously fresh and, perhaps most importantly after recent months, there are no estate agents. At least, none that I have encountered.
Travelling with me, of course, is my long-suffering companion Grzz’lax, who somehow concluded that 15 telephoto lenses constituted sensible packing for a short break. Following lengthy negotiations – and one particularly theatrical hiss – he reluctantly settled on nine. As it turns out, even that may have been optimistic. He has developed an entirely new obsession. Photography.
The Penguin has joined us as well. He remains his usual quiet self, although I have noticed him spending an extraordinary amount of time standing beside the water watching icebergs drift silently out to sea, occasionally jumping in for a swim and coming back with a fish to share with Grzz’lax. I cannot help wondering whether this has something to do with that memorable occasion when Agent Orange appeared to suggest that penguins came from this part of the world. They do not, of course. Nevertheless, it seemed only fair to indulge his curiosity. Everyone deserves a holiday. Even if the destination is inspired by questionable geography.
Our arrival
Naturally, we travelled incognito. A bright pink Martian wandering openly around this wonderfully remote corner of Earth might prove just a little too much excitement, even for these remarkably welcoming islanders.
Several layers of wool, a thick parka, oversized gloves and a hat large enough to conceal my antennae transformed me from “interplanetary correspondent” into what Grzz’lax confidently described as “a perfectly ordinary tourist”. I remain unconvinced. Still, the disguise has proved surprisingly effective.
Whether the locals genuinely believe we are rather tall Earthlings or have simply decided that commenting on unusually pink visitors would be impolite remains something of a mystery. Either way, nobody has pointed dramatically across the harbour shouting, “Good grief… that’s a Martian!” Which I consider a tremendous success.
There have been one or two curious glances when an errant antenna has escaped from beneath my woolly hat, but Earthlings have embraced stranger fashions over the years. Perhaps they simply assumed I was visiting from London.
Whatever the explanation, everyone has been unfailingly warm and welcoming. If they have realised that a Martian, his felinoid companion and a quietly contemplative Penguin are enjoying their beautiful island, they have displayed the remarkable courtesy of pretending otherwise.
Mars rather approves of that approach.
The finest silence in the Solar System
There is something extraordinary about this place. Not simply its beauty – although there is certainly no shortage of that. It is the silence. Proper silence.
Not the awkward pause after Captain Bonespurs confidently explains something that has been common knowledge since before humans discovered indoor plumbing. Not the silence while journalists wait in vain for Agent Orange to answer the question they actually asked instead of the one he wished they had. Real silence. The sort that reminds you the universe functions perfectly well without constant commentary.
The wind whispers gently across the ice. The sea laps quietly against the shore. Ancient glaciers creak and sigh as though stretching after a very long afternoon nap. Even the seabirds seem to have mastered the art of speaking only when absolutely necessary. It is wonderfully restorative. After months immersed in the relentless noise of Earthly politics, I had almost forgotten places like this still existed.
Standing beside a fjord watching ice drift silently towards the sea, one begins to understand why glaciers are never in a hurry. Unlike politicians, they have absolutely nothing to prove.
Yesterday afternoon I watched a single iceberg glide majestically past for almost half an hour. During the entire performance it made no attempt whatsoever to dominate the news cycle. It did not insist it was the greatest iceberg anyone had ever seen. It did not accuse neighbouring icebergs of conspiring against it. It simply floated quietly towards the horizon with a quiet confidence that comes from existing for thousands of years.
Frankly, it was one of the most sensible things I have witnessed all year.
Eating like the locals
Now let us turn to a subject that has occupied considerably more of my holiday than politics. Food.
One cannot spend one’s days wandering amongst glaciers, climbing hills and admiring fjords fuelled entirely by scenery and warm beverages. Well… perhaps Grzz’lax can. He has become so consumed by photographing the landscape that I have had to remind him, on more than one occasion, that lunch is not merely an optional interruption between photographs but a vital biological necessity.
The food here is exactly what one hopes to find in a place where the weather appears determined to freeze your eyebrows together. It is simple. Hearty. Honest.
There are no tiny portions artistically balanced on oversized plates, no mysterious foams, and no decorative smears requiring an accompanying lecture from the chef. Instead, meals arrive with the quiet confidence of people who understand that if you’ve spent the day battling Arctic winds, what you really need is something warm, filling and utterly delicious.
The smoked fish is exceptional, tasting as though the sea itself had personally approved the recipe. Fresh prawns somehow manage to be both delicate and wonderfully sweet, while rich lamb stew restores feeling to frozen extremities with remarkable efficiency. Even the rye bread deserves special mention. It has become something of a challenge to leave any of it behind.
Mars has many culinary achievements. Our fermented moon moss remains a particular favourite back home, although visitors rarely request second helpings. Even so, I freely admit these Earthlings know precisely how to look after hungry travellers.
Then there is the coffee. I thought I understood coffee. I did not.
The people here appear to regard it as less of a drink and more of an essential piece of survival equipment. It accompanies breakfast, lunch, afternoon conversations and seemingly any excuse that can be invented between them. It arrives gloriously hot, wonderfully strong and entirely without apology.
I wholeheartedly approve. By my calculations I have now consumed enough coffee to keep a Titla operational for at least three Martian weeks. Unlike Titlas, however, I continue to function perfectly well in sub-zero temperatures.
Grzz’lax discovers glaciers
If Grzz’lax merely appreciated glaciers when we arrived, he has now entered what Martian psychologists would almost certainly classify as a concerning phase. Our days have developed a remarkably predictable routine.
We set off to explore. Grzz’lax spots a glacier. Several hours mysteriously disappear. Eventually he returns, convinced he has just captured the finest landscape photograph in Martian history. The following morning the process begins again.
Yesterday he informed me, with complete sincerity, that one particular iceberg possessed “a wonderfully introspective quality”. It was, as far as I could determine, a very impressive lump of ice. This morning he insisted we revisit exactly the same viewpoint because, apparently, “the light had developed emotionally overnight”.
I have absolutely no idea what that means. I followed anyway. There are moments, however, when I begin to understand his enthusiasm. The colours shift almost imperceptibly throughout the day. The sea reflects the changing sky until it becomes difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. Mountains appear and disappear behind drifting clouds while icebergs quietly alter from brilliant white to deep shades of blue as the light changes around them.
No wonder Grzz’lax cannot stop taking photographs. Although I still maintain that 347 pictures of the same glacier may be slightly excessive.
The Lunar Haggis dilemma
There is, however, one small matter preventing complete relaxation.
The Lunar Haggis.
Before leaving Mars, I made what I believed were perfectly sensible arrangements. Several neighbours kindly agreed to “keep an eye on them”. In hindsight, that instruction may have lacked the precision usually expected of Martian planning.
Experience suggests that Lunar Haggis require remarkably little encouragement before embarking upon activities that sensible creatures dismiss immediately. There was the Great Traffic Cone Incident, the misunderstanding involving 17 weather balloons, the regrettable affair with the ceremonial hover mower, and, of course, the unfortunate episode where they attempted to improve a roundabout. We still receive complaints about that one.
By now they have been left largely unattended for the better part of a week.This is not an especially comforting thought. Grzz’lax suggested checking the Martian security cameras. I declined.
If the Lunar Haggis have somehow acquired heavy machinery, occupied Olympus Mons or declared themselves the Provisional Government of Upper Crater District Seven, there is precious little I can achieve from the edge of a fjord.
Some discoveries are best left until after one’s holiday. Preferably after coffee. Possibly after something considerably stronger.
Until next week…
As I finish writing this postcard, the evening light is beginning to soften across the fjord, turning the mountains shades of pink and gold that almost remind me of home. Almost.
Grzz’lax has disappeared once again, convinced that the next photograph will finally be “the masterpiece”. I quietly pointed out that he had said precisely the same thing about the previous 347. He informed me that artists should never be rushed.
The Penguin, meanwhile, remains perfectly content watching another iceberg drift silently towards the open sea. Whether he is still pondering Agent Orange’s memorable contribution to penguin geography or simply enjoying the view remains one of those mysteries that probably doesn’t require solving.
As for me, I intend to stay exactly where I am for a little while longer. Wrapped in rather more wool than any self-respecting Martian ever expected to own, with another excellent cup of coffee warming some of my hands, I am enjoying something America had almost made me forget existed. Peace and quiet. The circus will still be there when I get back.
For now, however, I shall simply watch the ice drift slowly through the fjord and quietly hope the Lunar Haggis haven’t discovered the keys to the Martian shuttle fleet. Although, knowing them… I suspect next week we will need to issue an apology.
Until next week, Earthlings.
Yours from somewhere delightfully cold, wonderfully peaceful and still stubbornly refusing to live up to its name.
