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It’s the end, as they say, of an era. Or at least it was meant to be. On Saturday last week, the RMS St Helena departed the South Atlantic island that gives it its name for what was supposed to
You can see it from the Mule Yard, the only bar in Jamestown, Saint Helena, that happens to be open every day. It’s more prominent at low tide than high, a steering column jutting out of the water like the
As they said of Rick’s in Casablanca, everybody comes to the Obsidian. And, as at Rick’s, they run the gamut: German climatologists, Italian game fishermen, Australian teachers who work on the Falklands, Belgian authors, Scottish contract painters, Canadian filmmakers and
From our ship, the island of Saint Helena in the south Atlantic Ocean is imposing, its cliffs high and sheer, the wave-buffeted rocks at their base sharp and craggy. The capital, Jamestown, where we have just spent the better part
It is a cool, moist morning and a hotchpotch of formally attired officials in sashes and curious tourists in T-shirts and thongs are making their way past a bilingual sign down a grassy, gradual incline to the grave. A small